


30 Day OTP Porn Challenge Fills

by amberfox17



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, 69 (Sex Position), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, BDSM, Bodily Fluids, Bondage and Discipline, Bottom Thor, Caning, Car Sex, Catboys & Catgirls, Concubine Thor, Corsetry, Crossdressing, Dancing, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Facials, Feels, First Time, Gags, Intercrural Sex, Intersex Loki, Intersex Thor, Jotun Thor, Jötunn Loki, M/M, Marathon Sex, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Kink, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgy, Other, Outdoor Sex, Painplay, Pink Panties, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostitution, Red Pants, Rimming, Roleplay, Semi-Public Sex, Sensation Play, Sensory Deprivation, Serial Killers, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Threesome, Thunder and Lightning, Victorian, Voyeurism, Webcams, Werewolves, Whipping, getting caught having sex, loki clones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:03:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 82,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now Complete! Each chapter is a stand-alone fill and will have the relevant prompt (and any warnings) in the beginning notes. Please see Chapter 1 for a masterlist of prompts and and a guide to what is covered in each fill chapter. Fills are either Thor/Loki or Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth. Nothing but filthy, filthy porn here people!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Masterlist

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [30 Day OTP Porn Challenge Fills (中譯)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2393183) by [Coralhime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coralhime/pseuds/Coralhime)



  **Fill Masterlist**

 Based on [chasingriver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge](http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com/post/39525363882/30-day-otp-porn-challenge)!

 **  
**Each chapter is named for the prompt it fills. To help you in your reading, here is a guide to exactly what is in each chapter.

 

**Chapter Summaries:**

**Fill 1.** **Sex toys & Masturbation**

Thor/Loki, Human Teenagers (Just to be clear, Thor & Loki are over eighteen, ok?)

 **Fill 2.** **Body fluids**

Werewolf Thor/Human Loki; dubious consent

 **Fill 3.** **Pain/sensation play**  

Thor/Loki; lightning/electricity, Loki/Mjolnir, masochistic Loki

 **Fill 4.** **First time they have sex**

Thor/Loki, La Belle Epoque AU (1900s); Intercrural Sex; Negative historical attitudes to homosexuality

 **Fill 5.** **Public/semi-public sex**

Thor/Loki; A blend of myth and MCU set in fin-de-siecle London (1899); orgy; dubious consent in that mortals can never hope to comprehend the divine.

**Fill 6. Corsets**

Thor/Loki, Victorian AU (1870s), married Lord Thor and kept lover Loki; cross-dressing; jealousy; author's obsession with Victorian clothing

**Fill 7. Dominance/submission**

Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth; BDSM, caning

**Fill 8. Inappropriate location**

Thor/Loki, Human AU, oral sex, sex in the front garden

**Fill 9. Double penetration**

Jotun Loki/Jotun Thor, intersex Loki & intersex Thor, discussion of mpreg (jotun preg?), weird power dynamics, alternative cultural norms, dominant Loki and submissive Thor

**Fill 10. Getting caught having sex**

Concubine Thor/Jotun Loki, intersex Loki, sexual slavery, descriptions of violence, character death (not Thor or Loki)

 **Fill 11. Out of character clothing**  
Chris Hemsworth/Tom Hiddleston; women’s underwear, first time, slight AU in that Chris is single during the filming of Thor (2011)

**Fill 12. Spanking**

Thor/Loki, human AU, bodyguard Thor/goth rocker Loki, slippers

**Fill 13. Creative sexual positions**

Chris Hemsworth/Tom Hiddleston; Victorian AU; 19 year old Tom/31 year old Chris; self-fellation

**Fill 14. Gags**

 Thor/Loki; Peloponnesian War AU, Spartan Thor / Athenian Loki; dubious consent, submissive Thor

**Fill 15. Medical play.**

Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth, school boy Tom (18)/school nurse Chris, age difference

**Fill 16. Oral sex**

Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth, catboy Tom, standing sixty-nine

**Fill 17. Explaining a kink to your partner & roleplaying**

 Thor/Loki, **Roleplaying of dub-con/bordering on non-con** , rough sex, Loki has serious issues

**Fill 18. Rimming**

Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth, vague AU, established relationship

**Fill 19. Explaining their relationship to a disapproving third party**

Warlord Thor/Jotun Loki, intersex Loki, sexual slavery, dancer Loki

**Fill 20. Voyeurism**

Thor/Loki, Thor/Loki, human AU, late teens (18+), mild dirty talk, webchat, boys in pretty panties, sibling incest

**Fill 21. Bondage  
**

Thor/Loki, sub Thor/dom Loki, future canon, whipping

**Fill 22. Anal sex**

Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth, Serial Killer Tom/Hooker Chris, age difference (21 year old Chris), consent issues, not quite breathplay, sex in a Jaguar.

**Fill 23. Awkward sex / things that don’t go as planned**

Thor/Loki, dirty talk, bottom Thor

**Fill 24. Sensory deprivation**

Thor/Loki, post-Avengers AU, feels

**Fill 25. Leather/latex >>> Humiliation kink**

Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth, service top sub Chris and power bottom dom Tom, flogging, crossdressing, orgasm denial, humiliation kink

**Fill 26. Threesome**

Chris Hemsworth/Tom Hiddleston, Italian Renaissance AU, Medici Tom (Tomas) x Borgais Chris (Cristoforo), virginity kink, first time, repressed desire, prostitution

 **Fill 27.**   **Wildcard! In heat**

Thor/Loki, heat trope, intersex Loki, marathon sex, facial

**Fill 28. Wildcard! Masturbation + Mjolnir**

Thor/Loki, bottom Thor, masturbation with Mjolnir, sensation play

**Fill 29. Wildcard! Loki clones**

Thor/Loki, mildly Loki/Loki, orgasm denial, light bondage, foursome, bottom!Thor, top!Thor, Loki being a shit

**Fill 30. Wildcard! Author's choice AU**

Thor/Loki, Penny Dreadful AU, Victorian werewolf Thor and Dorian Grey Loki, rough sex, mild dub-con

 


	2. Sex toys and masturbation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompts 27. Sex toys & 17\. Masturbation **  
> Thor/Loki, Human Teenagers (Just to be clear, Thor & Loki are over eighteen, ok?)
> 
> Oh God, so I saw [this amazing fanart](http://unfairlymostfairly.tumblr.com/post/60186723692) and well, porn happened. Also posted at [my tumblr](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com)

Thor knows he shouldn’t be watching.

It’s rude, for one thing, and Loki would be humiliated and furious if he caught him looking, and, oh yeah, Loki’s his damn cousin, and that makes it even worse but also – also kind of hotter.

Not that it gets much hotter than watching Loki fuck himself with a dildo, knees trembling, tiny black panties tangled around his thighs.

He’s always thought that Loki was gorgeous, in a kind of abstract way; his cousin looks absolutely nothing like him, all pale skin and lean lines, totally unlike Thor’s wide frame and perpetual tan. He’s always wondered why Loki never seemed to have a girlfriend, despite his sullenness and superciliousness and sly comments, for surely there were tons of girls who liked that sort of thing, who would want a boyfriend with tattoos and shaggy hair and black nail-polish. He’d thought, from time to time, that maybe Loki was gay, which was cool, no problem, but then he never seemed to have any boyfriends either.

Thor never imagined anything like this.

He really shouldn’t be watching, but Loki is just so gorgeous kneeling on the bed, one hand bracing himself on the headboard, the other working the frankly huge dildo in and out of his ass. It makes a wet squelching noise every time Loki moves it, a counterpoint to Loki’s breathy moans and quiet sighs, his tattoos writhing as his muscles flex, sweat shining on his skin.

Loki’s cock is thick and flushed and the head is dripping wet, with shimmering threads of pre-come sliding down the engorged flesh. Loki barely seems to notice, his eyes closed and mouth open, groaning as he slides the dildo in and out, hips jerking lightly. Thor’s never had anything in his ass, and when the boys joked about it, like they always did, he pulled a face and shuddered in mock-horror. Secretly, he’d always figured it would hurt like hell, but Loki doesn’t seem like he’s in any pain at all. Sure, Thor hadn’t actually seen him put it in, but his face is contorted in ecstasy now, and he’s definitely enjoying himself.

Has Loki been fucked by someone? Thor wonders, watching through the part-open door, ready to run if Loki looks up. He must want to be. Thor’s had a couple of girlfriends and had managed to go all the way with the last one, but he has no idea if Loki’s a virgin or not. He’s heard from the older boys that some girls will do anal and they reckoned it was even better, even tighter. What would it be like to fuck a guy in the ass? Would it be better than having a girl in the backseat of a car?

His own cock aches and he palms it absently, trying to adjust the growing hardness inside his suddenly too-tight jeans. He shouldn’t be thinking this. Oh, not the bit about fucking a guy, that’s fine, he’s not an asshole about it like some people, but he shouldn’t be thinking it while watching Loki, shouldn’t be thinking that the dildo’s not that much different in shape and size and – weirdly – colour from Thor’s own cock. Shouldn’t be imagining walking in and taking over, having Loki make those little whimpers just for him –

Loki moans, more loudly, drowning out the blood rushing in Thor’s ears. It’s just them in the house, and will be for hours; everyone is at the beach and the only reason Thor is back early is because he’d gotten bored and wondered if Loki wanted to hang out. But Loki had been too involved in his own entertainment to hear Thor coming back and now, now nothing will tear Thor away.

His cock is so hard it’s almost painful and he can’t help it, he _can’t_ , he has to undo his jeans and slip a hand into his pants. Loki is fucking himself faster now, the slick, wet sounds louder, and Thor wraps a hand around his cock and matches his pace. It’s good, it’s fucking fantastic, and he can’t stop the fantasies from rising up, imagining that it is his cock in Loki’s ass, imagining how hot and tight it must be, how much louder Loki would be if he was really being fucked. Thor would make it good, so good for him, he’d love it, and as his own hand works faster and faster on his cock he bites his lip and imagines Loki doing the same.

He’s not gonna last, no fucking way, but he forces his eyes open, looks at Loki, whose bent forward now, face flushed, legs spread wide as he plunges the dildo in and out of his fluttering hole, really fucking himself now, one long, continuous ‘oh’ of pleasure spilling out of his mouth as he ruts against the bedding, cock sliding in a pool of his own pre-come.

Can he come without touching himself? Thor wonders, heat creeping up his neck and flaring along his cheeks. Does he love it that much? Pleasure coils in his belly at the thought, electricity shooting along his spine. God, that would be amazing, fucking him and having him coming from nothing more than Thor’s cock in his ass, maybe screaming Thor’s name, all that cool detachment blown to smithereens as Thor takes him and comes in him and –

Thor comes with a muffled grunt, his whole body shaking with it as hot come pulses over his hand and stains his boxers. He feels _amazing_ , aftershocks rippling through him, whole body throbbing with the force of it, and he cannot help a gasp as he fights to get enough air back into his lungs.

He risks a glance at Loki and his bliss is crushed by the realisation that Loki too has come while Thor was too distracted to notice. Loki is slumped on the bed, dildo still protruding from his ass, face buried in his arms as he gulps for breath. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, come splattered across the bedspread. Thor is so very, very disappointed that he missed seeing Loki’s orgasm.

Still, he thinks as he tucks himself away and with one last, longing look, creeps along the hall to his own room to clean up, they have the whole summer together. Who knows how often Loki does this? He will just have to keep a close eye on his cousin, and the thought stirs a heady mixture of guilt and excitement that has his spent cock twitching in his uncomfortably damp underwear.

Behind him, unseen and unremarked, Loki lifts his head from the bed and smiles to himself. Oh, he will not have long to wait now. Dear Thor is so predictable a creature, after all.


	3. Bodily fluids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **3\. Body fluids**
> 
>  
> 
> Werewolf Thor/Human Loki; dubious consent

Loki idly runs his hand along the cool bars of the cell, tapping out an uneven rhythm as his rings catch against the steel. Thor’s vacant eyes do not track the movement, but his head turns as Loki moves, nostrils flaring as he inhales Loki’s scent.

The nights are long at this time of year, and Thor has already been down here for an hour, more than long enough for the lassitude of the day to gather itself into anticipation, his body tense and coiled, waiting, waiting for the moon to rise. His mind is already gone, already sunk into the animal that slumbers in his mind, waiting, just waiting, for the chance to come roaring from the ancient blackness into the bloody, thrashing present.

Thor’s body will not change until the moonlight touches his skin; there have been cloudy or rain-soaked nights when he did not change at all, not a blessing but a torment, the trauma of being denied the release driving him to claw at his skin and sinew and bone, inflicting far more damage on himself than the change ever does. It is better for Thor to change, better for him to shuck his prison of hairless flesh. But it would be far too dangerous to let him roam on four swift feet and so he is chained here, in a cell built of stone and steel, hidden from the world save for the single skylight, high, high above.

It is less than an hour to moonrise. The uncaring stars stare down at the shackled Thor, who snuffles and sobs in the dark, desperate for the pressure beneath his skin to ease.

Loki has an idea about that.

He carefully removes his clothes and folds them neatly, unconcerned that this has no effect on Thor. He has been planning this for a long, long time, but it is still not without an element of risk. He would not be here otherwise.

Thor’s chains keep him tethered to the back of the cell. He has room enough to come within an arm’s span of the bars but no closer; the wolf has broken his bonds before, in many other cells, but so far this once has held. Loki is hoping they will hold tonight. He casts a careful eye over his preparations, arranged neatly between the bars, within easy reach provided he does not go too far inside.

Loki unlocks the heavy padlock and slides open the door.

This gets Thor’s attention and he lifts his head, struggling to focus on Loki and not the fire in his blood. He can no longer speak, but makes a low keening noise, not quite a whimper, but managing to convey both his recognition of Loki and his fear for him.

“It’s all right, Thor,” Loki soothes, and at the sound of his voice Thor jerks, body pitching forward, even as he ponderously shakes his head. His fear of hurting Loki is a constant source of irritation in their daylight lives and even now, even with most of his humanity lost beneath the rolling storm of instinct that governs the cursed wolf, it is plain to see that he wants Loki to go, to be safe beyond the cell.

Loki is not interested in safety.

He moves forward, but still within reach of the bars, the open door at his back. Thor lurches forward, muscles straining as he drags the heavy chains, the shrill screech of metal on metal filling the cell as he comes as close to Loki as he can. It’s close enough.

Loki runs a hand through Thor’s sweat-soaked hair and receives a wounded noise in return. Thor is trembling, limbs twitching as his over-worked synapses fire over and over, his whole body tensed for a change that is not as imminent as he needs it to be.

Loki’s gaze drops to where Thor’s cock leaps, huge and wet and curving upwards. He had not noticed it at first, in the shorter evenings when the change swept over Thor like an avalanche, stripping him of everything in a violent convulsion of screams and the crunch of bone. But now, now that Thor suffers through this limbo between sunset and moonrise, he has seen that Thor’s body betrays him in this most intimate of ways, yet another release denied to the poor, tortured soul.

Well, let it not be said that Loki is entirely free of mercy, especially when it fits so neatly into the dark and devious desires of his own secret self.

Loki licks his palm and wraps it around Thor’s cock. Thor looms over him, pulling against the chains, breath ragged and wet against Loki’s cheek. Loki smiles and begins to stroke. There is no reason in Thor this night, no thoughts of right or wrong; nothing but pain and pleasure and instinct, and he makes a delicious groaning sound as Loki works his cock, hips thrusting, eyes closed and mouth open. Loki drinks it all in, lets his free hand wander over Thor’s slick chest, feeling the powerful muscles of his abdomen clench and unclench as he fucks into Loki’s hand.

Such a simple thing and yet it is all Thor cares for; he would stay here, half-suspended in chains with no more thought than pushing forward until he comes, the swift, uncomplicted release relieving some of his pain and making the later change easier. Loki knows; he has done it before. But tonight he has different plans.

He releases Thor’s cock and backs off slightly. Thor growls, but there is not much aggression in it yet, his eyes glazed with pleasure, not bloodlust. Loki spreads his legs and reaches around to gently remove the buttplug he inserted a few hours ago, grunting as it slides out, leaving his stretched hole feeling empty. He tosses it aside and looks at Thor, watches him inhale and taste the air, swallow up the scent of Loki’s own arousal. Thor’s head drops and he tries to move forward, snarls angrily as the chains bring him up short.

It is a terrible risk, but Loki does not hesitate now: as quickly as he can he moves back into Thor’s space, puts himself on his hands and knees and lowers his head to the floor, presenting his slick and ready hole for Thor. Thor needs no instruction, his cock dragging over Loki’s ass as he lines himself up and then mounts Loki in one hard thrust.

Loki screams, unable to stop himself; the sudden invasion pushes the air from his lungs and jolts him forward, knees scraping across the floor, the metallic tang of blood suddenly filling the air. Thor is huge inside him, stretching him wide, filling him more thoroughly than anyone or anything ever has. The burn lingers as Thor huffs, adjusting his position, trying to work himself even deeper, hands gripping Loki’s hips too tightly for comfort, no doubt leaving bruises and scratch marks as his sharp nails prick Loki’s vulnerable skin. Thor pulls back and then thrusts again, and as he does so his enormous cock drags over Loki’s prostate, purely from the girth of it, rather than from any attempt at skill by Thor, and Loki cries out at the sudden sparking pleasure. It is worth it, it is worth everything, he thinks wildly as Thor begins to fuck him brutally, unsurprisingly animalistic in his strength and pace, shoving deeply into Loki with immense power and speed.

Loki can do nothing but take it, tears filling his eyes as the sheer force of Thor’s fucking pushes him along the floor, knees and elbows rubbed raw, his own cock jerking with every thrust. It is everything he wanted and he moans and yelps, and his cries seem to please Thor, for he folds himself closer to Loki, a hot and heavy weight on his back, and he laps messily at the dip between Loki’s shoulder blades, teeth scraping along Loki’s spine.

His bite has no threat, not while his teeth are still human and the curse he carries is still dormant, but it is enough to have Loki shuddering, his own orgasm coiling in the pit of his stomach. He can’t come like this but it’s a near thing, the rough fucking building him up, the thrill of being taken bubbling through his veins and crackling over his skin.

Thor is even closer though, losing all rhythm and sense, surging into Loki with vicious force, snarling between pants until he freezes and comes, cock pulsing inside Loki, biting down hard on Loki until his skin splits and he feels the rush of his own blood along his back.

Thor pulls out with a grunt and there is just enough of him left that he makes a sad, apologetic sound as he rolls Loki over and laps at his blood-stained knees. But Loki cares little for a few scratches and he grips Thor’s head by his long hair and guides him higher until his hot tongue finds Loki’s neglected cock. Thor laps at it eagerly enough, inhaling deeply, and when he finally swallows it whole Loki arches off the floor and comes with a scream.

Loki lies boneless on the floor for a few seconds, but tired and aching as he is, he’s not done yet. He grabs Thor by the jaw. “Spit,” he commands and thankfully Thor can still understand enough to obey, confusion wrinkling across his sated face. He obligingly spits Loki’s come onto Loki’s outstretched palm and watches blankly as Loki smears it over his own body, mixing it with the copious amounts of Thor’s come now trickling from his sore ass.

Loki smears the mess over his cock, his thighs and across his pulse points: his neck, his wrists, his throat. He’s filthy and covered in salvia, come and sweat by the time he’s done, but he and the cell now reek of sex and blood.

And not a moment too soon, for the moon is rising, her pitiless, cratered gaze pouring in through the skylight, spreading a silver stain over Thor. Thor gasps and falls to his knees, his entire body flexing, the moonlight finally providing the catalyst he has been waiting for.

The change is swift, rising like the tide, wave after wave of convulsions shaking Thor apart as his bones break and his skin tears, fur and fangs and fury ripping their way out of the soft meat of his human frame. He screams and screams but it is easier, it is swifter than it has ever been before, and within moments the agony is over and the terrible wolf rises to its feet and fixes its glowing eyes on Loki.

Loki stands his ground, one step away from the still-open door. The silver dagger he holds behind him is sharp and the blade long. He hopes he will not need it.

The wolf pads forward, nostrils flaring. Its head is higher than Loki’s; it is six feet at the shoulder and twice as large again as Thor had been. Its lips writhe as it opens its mouth, the serrated fangs bone-white and gleaming. It drags its long muzzle over Loki, breath hot and wet, and its tongue flicks out to taste the mixture of sweat and seed soaked into Loki’s skin.

The wolf makes a low keening noise that deepens to a rumble as Loki hesitantly raises a hand and slides his fingers through the golden fur of the wolf’s head.

“Thor,” he says, giddy with relief, and the wolf licks his face, nuzzles against him.

Loki drops the dagger, the wolf’s ears flicking as it makes a hollow clang against the floor. “Come,” Loki says, smile sharper than any knife could ever be as he guides Thor’s head to the open door, his fingers busy at the chains that hold the wolf back. “It is time we went hunting.”


	4. Sensation play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **21\. Pain/sensation play**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Thor/Loki; lightning/electricity, Loki/Mjolnir, masochistic Loki
> 
> Based (loosely) on the [actual science of Lichtenberg figures](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/59904589276) and [this awesome fanart](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/59956401434)

“You are certain about this, brother?” Thor asks, one more time.

“Yes, yes,” Loki answers impatiently, clearly irritated by Thor’s constant questioning. “You know it will not do any lasting damage.”

“As you wish then,” Thor says, turning his head to press a gentle kiss to Loki’s thigh where it rests against him. He glances up at the sky, clear and blue, before casting a careful eye over Loki, lying on his back on the short grass, legs pulled up and arms stretched above his head. Their metal and leather armour and potentially flammable clothing is piled a safe distance away in this remote corner of Asgard’s wilderness; it is just them, their bare skin and the vast expanse of sky.

And Mjolnir, of course, lying on her side between Thor’s knees, her thick handle disappearing into Loki’s ass.

Loki is already panting, his narrow chest rising and falling, throat working as he squirms against the rigid shaft of Thor’s hammer. Thor had been careful, so, so careful as he gradually worked Mjolnir’s handle into Loki, all too aware that for Loki, she is an immoveable force, a great weight pinning him in place. He has raised Mjolnir against his brother in anger and pain too many times in the past; he will not risk hurting him with her now.

He had been hesitant the first time Loki asked him to ease the great hammer into his body, fearing what might happen, but he is well practised now and knows both how much Loki can take and how much pleasure he derives from it. For his part, Thor will never tire of seeing his quicksilver brother impaled on the hammer that is an extension of himself, fixed and held and laid out for Thor’s pleasure.

Now, Mjolnir hums with excitement, for she feels Thor’s love for Loki and so is fond of him herself. It is a source of sorrow for Thor that she does not share his feelings on Loki’s worthiness, but it is something they have both had to accept. At least he can offer Loki more than just the pleasure of being breached by the star-hammer.

Thor places one hand on Mjolnir’s flat head and lets her song fill him, draws her restless energy into himself, the crackling charge sweeping through him as he becomes a conduit for the lightning in her heart. He runs his other along Loki’s lean legs, splaying his fingers wide and holding his palm a good few inches above Loki’s skin.

Electricity arcs from his hand to Loki’s flesh, sharp slivers of light that dance and spark as he moves slowly from his ankle to the crease of his thigh and then repeats the movement on the other leg. Loki’s head falls back and his eyes close as he exhales raggedly. Thor teases him as much as he dares, sweeping his broad hands over Loki’s chest, along his sides, watching Loki twitch and arch into the tingling sensation.

“More,” Loki sighs and Thor obeys.

He concentrates, groping clumsily for the link between the power he can feel throbbing within Mjolnir and his own mounting excitement. He has no seidr, no power like Loki’s, but with Mjolnir in his grasp he has access to one force that has never deigned to answer Loki’s call.

The power of the storm swells within him and the lightning dancing along his hands flares, burning more intensely, each new jolt fiercer and fiercer. Loki gasps as the tiny strikes begin to sting, begin to shock and Thor watches him carefully, notes the way his mouth slackens with pleasure and his cock thickens. It is difficult for Thor to keep this much power under control and he must hold himself on a short leash, letting the coming storm build and build inside him without letting it break.

The pressure in the air around them thickens as sparks spread along Thor’s own skin. He licks his lips and notes the taste of ozone on his tongue, the rapidly gathering clouds casting a long shadow over his writhing brother. He keeps his hands moving, keeps the pain sudden and short until Loki’s cock is leaping, flushed and slick, a thin thread of pre-come stretching from the head to the growing wet patch on Loki’s stomach.

“Thor,” Loki moans, his voice raw with need. “Thor, _please_.”

Thor does not know if it is the pain or the release or the fact that it is something so intricately tied to who he is that pleases Loki most, but what he does know is that Loki never lasts long when they play this game. His brother needs so little and yet so much from him all at once and in this, he is happy to oblige.

“Be ready,” Thor growls, his own arousal a steady hum beneath his skin and Loki’s eyes open and he looks up, pure want painted on his face.

Thor lifts his hand to the sky and lets go.

Pure white light rips the air apart, blinding Thor as the lightning tears a path from heaven to earth, the sudden crack and ground-shaking boom of the thunder deafening him as the storm breaks and roars through them both. The storm holds no threat to Thor, who lets the sheer elemental power wash over him and through him, scorching him with its fury but leaving him unscathed.

Loki bears its full force with a cry Thor can neither see nor hear.

He can feel Loki convulsing wildly as the storm swallows him up and he knows that Loki is coming, is screaming in joy as the lightning sears him to the bone. His brother’s fondness for pain is not something he shares, but he will admit to finding a beauty in Loki’s ecstatic suffering, remembering how Loki shakes and shudders in sweet agony, how his limbs thrash and voice breaks as his orgasm is wrenched from him.

In the ringing silence of the aftermath Thor looks on Loki. Delicate red scars have bloomed on his chest and arms, a tree picked out in light and fire and blood, proof positive of the intensity of the lightning’s strike. The intricate tracings of Thor’s power will fade within a day, but for now Thor looks on Loki’s come-splattered skin and sees his own touch burnt into Loki’s quivering flesh.

He groans and moves his hand to his own cock, desperate and aching, and works himself frantically, blood still burning with the storm’s fury. Loki watches him with heavy-lidded eyes, dazed and blissful, all his sharp edges melted away, stretched out languorously but still fixed beneath Thor by Mjolnir’s loyal strength. It takes only moments for Thor’s own orgasm to crest and break, ripping through him in a sudden explosion of pleasure, his come painting Loki’s chest still further. Loki lies boneless and sated, the fruit of the lightning crimson against his pale skin, their mingled seed a slick mess streaked across the branching tendrils.

Thor catches his breath in a series of shuddering gulps, feeling wrung out and exhausted as he finally lifts his other hand from Mjolnir. The smell of sex and scorched earth fills the air; all around them a fractal discharge pattern has been picked out in the green grass, a shadow of the fern-like marks on Loki’s body, the ground too scarred by the storm Thor unleashed.

Thor leans forward and kisses Loki gently, softly, and his brother lets him, soft and pliable beneath him, floating in a dreamy haze. In a few moments he will clean Loki up, will remove Mjolnir just as carefully as he inserted her, will tend to Loki’s needs and take them home. But for now, he just holds him close and whispers to him quietly, telling him how beautiful and cherished he is while overhead the sky clears to a brilliant, unblemished blue.


	5. First time they have sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **12\. First time they have sex**
> 
> Thor/Loki, La Belle Epoque AU (1900s); Intercrural Sex; Negative historical attitudes to homosexuality
> 
> So [Marty](http://marty-mc.tumblr.com) got me on a line of thought about [how wonderfully Art Nouveau Loki is](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/60386934730) and thus this fic was born. It's not the turn-of-the-century fic I want to write, but will have to do for now. I will be returning to this period in other fills because I adore it and it's under-represented in fandom.
> 
> Since 'first time' is my stock-in-trade, I've added Intercrural Sex as a kink to make it more interesting, because it's actually [more appropriate for the period than oral or anal sex](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_love#Victorian_era) and because of this [porn video](http://wankworthy.tumblr.com/post/14605013806).
> 
> I'm also aware these fics are getting longer and longer but I am having _so much fun_.  
>  EDIT: [Here's a sample Victorian erotic photograph with a male nude](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/60946328779) (thanks marty!)

“You really are such a bore,” Loki sighs, flapping his hand lazily at Thor and Thor has to fight the urge to grab him by the throat and shake him until he sees sense. It never works.

“You are a disgrace, brother,” he says though gritted teeth instead, hands fisting and unfisting at his side. “Do you have any idea what would happen if someone were to find out what you have done? The shame you would bring on us all if you were arrested – if you went to trial like your precious Wilde and all of _this_ came out?”

“I am not your brother,” Loki snaps, showing the first signs of life since Thor burst in and woke him from his comatose state. “I am your father’s ward only and all know it.”

“You are part of our family,” Thor insists. “Can you imagine what father would say if he were to see you like this?” He throws his hands out wide, encompassing Loki’s dishevelled self, expensive clothes rumpled from where he has slept in them, stained with vibrant absinthe and god knows what else, the cluttered studio apartment with dog-eared copies of Huysmans’ _À rebours_ and Colette’s _Claudine_ series on brazen display, and worst of all, the thick photography album he discovered on the side table.

Thor has never had a high opinion of Loki’s lifestyle, seeing precious little evidence of Loki’s supposed art studies in his half-finished poetry and lazy sketches. He thinks his mother spoiled Loki, indulged his fancies of having a ‘poetic soul’ too far, and certainly thinks his father should not have leased this fine Parisian apartment for his erstwhile brother to find inspiration in. He is the only one who takes time away from the family business interests in London to actually visit Loki and so far the only inspiration Loki seems to have found is strong liquor, cabaret shows and a preference for cocaine over morphine.

But all these vices pale when compared to the richly embossed and decorated album he found today. With Loki passed out on his ridiculously extravagant furniture Thor had tried to put away the more offensive books and pictures strewn about the room, so that he might be able to summon the housekeeper without too much shame. He needs to have a vigorous word with her about the lax attitude of her staff, for Loki’s room has clearly not been cleaned in recent weeks; whatever Loki has told them, it is not appropriate for the chambermaids to merely light his fire and scrub the bathroom. Loki is still part of the family and there are standards to be maintained, even on the Continent.

Thor had opened the album merely as part of this process and certainly not out of a prurient curiosity. It is full of staged photographs of Loki, perhaps a hundred, perhaps more, taken at least over the past year to judge from Loki’s changing hairstyles. He has never seen anything like it in his life and he attributes his otherwise inexplicable decision to leaf slowly through its contents to pure shock.

Loki is naked in each and every one of them.

The photographer has dressed and posed him in dozens of guises, each helpfully labelled in a neat and unfamiliar hand: Patroclus, clutching a sword and shield, looking longingly into the distance; St Sebastian, writhing beneath rather poorly crafted arrows; Orpheus, mournfully plucking a lyre; Loki as an Egyptian Slave boy adorned in heavy jewellery and with kohl-rimmed eyes, shyly offering a fan toward the viewer; Loki standing tall and proud, face turned up, the only clue to his being Ganymede the jewelled cup lying at his feet.

They go on and go, every figure from mythology and legend that the photographer could imagine, every image a celebration of Loki’s narrow hips and long legs, his beautifully expressive face and shadowed eyes. This would be enough to have Thor trembling with emotion, but what it worse is the way the images change as he passes the half-way point, becoming more intimate, more dangerous, often just Loki, back arched or limbs splayed, the photographer’s fascination with his soft cock becoming more and more prominent as he sits and lays in more natural poses and with less props.

The last set of photographs are almost obscene: labelled ‘The Seven Deadly Sins’ they have been arranged on the last two pages of the album. The first four are ordered neatly in a square, and feature Pride, Sloth, Wrath and Envy, all depicted with nothing more a close-up of Loki’s face: Loki turning away from the camera, face imperious; sprawled out as if asleep, groin tilted forward and head away; Loki with his hand raised to strike, face twisted in anger and Loki looking sidelong, mouth sneering but eyes hungry. Thor hesitates to turn the page.

The last three are arranged in a downward pointing triangle, two smaller photographs side by side and one much larger underneath. The first two are Gluttony and Avarice, Loki sucking on a pomegranate, eyes half-lidded in pleasure, and Loki rubbing his face into a plush fur coat, glittering gems arranged in his dark hair. But it is the last one that has Thor’s breath catching and he drops the book as if burned.

It is, of course, Lust. The photographer has photographed Loki lying on his back from above, the image carefully cropped to show his face and shoulders only. His eyes are closed and his mouth open and it is impossible not to read the expression on his face, impossible to pretend this is anything other than an image of Loki at his climax, all the more titillating for the mystery of what or who might have delivered him there.

Fury had bloomed in Thor as the album crashed from his hands to the table, anger at Loki’s stupidity in allowing such proof of his perversions to be made, at his brazen disregard for the risk he brings on himself and upon Thor and the family, at the arrogance of keeping such a book in plain view in his own living space. Rage had swallowed Thor up and he had grabbed the nearest vase of waxy white lilies and thrown it against the wall, the resulting cacophony finally waking Loki from his slumber.

“It is Art, Thor,” is Loki’s only excuse, breath-taking in its simplicity. “Arthur is very fond of his photography and I was all too happy to help him improve. Look, see how far he’s come,” Loki had said, pointing to an early photo of him as Morpheus, arranged stiffly and clutching a calla lily, looking more dead than sleeping, and then turning to a second attempt, a close-up of Loki with his face tucked into the crook of his arm, other hand resting coyly on his public bone, the calla lily now nestled alongside Loki’s cock. It is indeed an improvement, but it does not help Thor’s mood.

“It is disgusting,” Thor rages, hating this Arthur and Loki’s indifference. “It is a foul depravity, unnatural and unmanly, to be eradicated, not celebrated! How can you debase yourself like this?”

“You wish to discuss depravity?” Loki answers, eyes narrowing. “You dare to accuse me of shaming the family when both you and father have left a trail of bastards across London? At least what I do has no consequences beyond the moment. The housemaids need not fear me and I do not waste my money in brothels. What I do creates beauty and pleasure for many and harms none.”

“It harms you,” Thor cries, choosing to ignore the truth in Loki’s barbs. “You are being corrupted by – by these friends of you, by this foul Art you think so much of. Come home, Loki. Leave this madness and join me in father’s company. We were raised together as brothers. I care not for your name and station. When Father dies I will make you a partner with me.”

“And why would I want that?” Loki asks sharply, rising to his feet in one swift movement. “I care nothing for your dull London life, Thor, and I care even less for being part of your precious family. This is where I belong, here in the saloons and studios of Paris, where I am adored and feted and _wanted_.”

“I want you!” Thor shouts, grabbing Loki by the shoulders and ignoring Loki’s wince. “Do not speak as if you were never cared for. I have always loved you and wanted you at my side.”

“At your side and in your shadow,” Loki spits furiously, jerking out of Thor’s grip. “No, Thor. If I am to be at someone’s feet it will because I choose to be there, with someone who knows that being on my knees is _not_ the same as being unworthy.”

The image of it rises in Thor’s mind, Loki on his knees but with a predatory smile, a featureless man begging for his touch, helplessly in thrall to Loki’s clever tongue and wicked eyes, Loki in the outfits from the photographers, shadowy men running their hands over Loki’s body whispering the names of other lovers, other dreams.

“No,” Thor shouts, reaching for Loki, dragging him close, Loki powerless against Thor’s greater strength. “Never again,” he snarls and he knows he’s not making sense anymore, can see the hatred in Loki’s eyes as he kicks out feebly, still too exhausted from whatever debauchery he indulged in last night to fight properly. Thor wrestles him to the ground with ease, barely thinking at all as he pins him there.

“And here we are again,” Loki snarls, eyes burning, two spots of colour high on his cheekbones. “So much for your vaunted caring, dear _brother_. This is where you want me: on my back and beneath you, just like your precious doxies.”

That stings and Thor opens his mouth to deny it, to profess again that he does care for Loki, that he is just angry and so disgusted by Loki’s wilful wrongdoing, that this is not where he wants Loki at all. But the words die on his tongue, for in their struggle Loki’s much abused clothing has finally given up and both his shirt and waistcoat have torn and fallen away, exposing much of Loki’s chest. It reminds Thor so strongly of the indecent photographs that for a moment he cannot breathe and must swallow heavily to regain his wits.

But Loki’s wits never dull and his gaze rakes over Thor’s face, as always seeing more there than Thor would have him know and the malice in his face turns to triumph. “Oh,” he says softly, and his smile ripples like oil over water. “Oh, poor, innocent Thor. Did you not know until now why you so love to throw me down like this? Why you always had to hold me down in rough-housing and rage alike? You must be a far better liar than I ever gave you credit for to lie to yourself for so long.”

“No,” Thor says again, but more weakly, pulling back, pulling away, trying to flee from the forbidden truth in Loki’s words. But Loki never lets an opportunity pass him by and he follows with the speed of a striking snake, and now it is Thor trying to get away, struggling as Loki climbs into his lap with a fluid grace and wraps himself around Thor with a surprisingly strong grip. “When did you first start to suspect your, ah, depravity matched my own?” Loki asks and his smile is even more predatory than Thor had imagined. “How long have you been pretending that there is nothing between us but childhood sentimentality, that it was duty that kept you coming back to me?”

“You are my brother,” Thor says helplessly, clinging to the lie that has kept his desires trapped all these years.

“No, I am not,” Loki murmurs against his ear. “I never was.”

“We cannot,” Thor says, his cherished notions of decency screaming in protest, but the rest of his argument fades away as Loki arches against him, smelling of wine and the cloying scent of night-blooming orchids. “Loki,” he groans. “Loki, no.”

“Then not Loki,” the man he has always thought of as brother whispers. “Shall I be your Jonathon and you my mighty David? I was always fond of that tale. Shall I show you the love surpassing that of women, my Prince?”

His fine-boned hands have already worked loose Thor’s trousers and he slides his hand inside, teasing Thor’s rapidly swelling cock with soft fingertips. Thor bucks up: despite Loki’s slurs, it has been a long time since he tumbled a maid or street girl, too busy preparing to take over the family’s business interests. And it has been even longer that he has dreamt of those fine, artist’s hands drifting over his body, foul and twisted dreams that left him gasping and shaking with a mixture of pleasure and crippling guilt.

“What the Israelites did together I do not know,” Loki says, gripping Thor more firmly and working him with long, lazy strokes, “but I am well acquainted with the ways of Greek love. Am I not as beautiful as Callicrates? I swear, I will forgive your cowardice, Aristodemus, if you will but love me now.”

“What?” Thor asks, confused and distracted by the slide of Loki’s palm.

Loki chuckles. “You really ought to read more,” he says, “there is a wealth of fascinating ideas to be found in Hellenic literature. Come, let me teach you.”

Thor cannot bring himself to say yes but he does not say no, and so follows dumbly as Loki leads him to the couch, stepping out of his trousers and tugging Thor’s down. He retrieves a vial of viscous oil from where it has rolled under the table and makes to pour its contents onto his fingers. Thor grabs his wrist.

“I am no sodomite,” he growls, clinging to the hope that there is a still a line he will not cross, a limit to the wickedness he has succumbed to.

“I am not asking you to be one,” Loki says, unfazed. “Trust me.”

Thor has no answer to that either, but he lets go of Loki’s wrists and watches intently as Loki smears the insides of his thighs with oil and then pours a generous amount onto Thor’s cock. Loki pushes Thor onto the couch, arranging him on his side, and then slots himself in front of Thor, shifting until they are spooning, Thor’s wet cock now gripped by Loki’s slippery thighs. “Like this,” he says, moving his hand to Thor’s ass and pulling him forward.

Thor thrusts and cannot help a gasp, for it feels good, wonderfully so, his cock sliding along the bottom of Loki’s ass cheeks and up along his balls. Loki’s muscles are tensed and he grips Thor firmly, much more tightly than he would have imagined. Thor thrusts again and Loki shudders against him. It is too late to stop now, far too late, and it is a great relief to know it, to let the truth of it permeate him, to think and feel nothing except for the burning need he has for the man in his arms.

Thor wraps one arm around Loki, holding him in place with his palm flat over Loki’s heart, and he can feel Loki’s outside arm flexing as Loki takes his own cock in hand and strokes in the same rhythm Thor sets. It is curiously intimate and not anything like the demeaning images that had crossed his mind before. Loki turns his head to the side and Thor kisses his cheek, delighting in the soft, breathy sounds that escape from Loki, the wet slap of their bodies moving together.

Every thrust pushes the head of his cock into Loki’s balls and Loki makes a low ‘oh’ as he does so, twisting his head further until they can manage a brief, sloppy kiss. Thor buries his face in Loki’s hair once he turns back around and concentrates on the glorious friction surrounding his cock. He tries to move slowly, to let the pleasure build but as it spreads through him he begins to move faster, thrusting harder, and Loki makes a delicious whimpering sound that he just cannot ignore.

Thor ruts against Loki’s thighs mindlessly, Loki’s rising cries ringing in his ears and he feels his orgasm rising, his cock aching desperately and he groans and jerks his hips faster, harder until at last he comes with a long, low ‘oh’ of pleasure. As the aftershocks ripple through him he realises Loki is still panting in his arms so he reaches down and closes his own hand over Loki’s throbbing cock and it only takes a few swift pulls for Loki to find his release, his seed spurting over Thor’s fingers as Loki sobs.

Decency and dignity be damned: Thor rolls over onto Loki and kisses him furiously, their sticky fingers still entangled around Loki’s spent cock. “You,” Thor sighs into Loki’s mouth, tasting old liquor and something darker and sweeter, “you must know that I love you.”

“Oh, I know,” Loki murmurs between kisses, his tongue flickering into Thor’s mouth between breaths, sounding richly pleased with himself. “I know so _many_ things that you do not.”


	6. Semi-public sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **22\. Public/semi-public sex**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Thor/Loki; A blend of myth and MCU set in fin-de-siecle London (1899); orgy; dubious consent in that mortals can never hope to comprehend the divine.
> 
> Because the Long Nineteenth Century is the best century, that's why. More Art Nouveau decadence, and also a personal challenge of writing entirely without dialogue. [Here are some beautiful Art Nouveau mirrors](http://theartnouveaublog.blogspot.co.uk/2011/06/art-nouveau-mirrors.html) for your imaginative pleasure.

It has been an age since Thor walked on Midgard and, as ever, he is amazed by how much the mortal world has changed since he was last here. This is a new world of steam and fire and concrete, of choking smog and blazing light, of the machine and the law and the enquiring mind, though as ever, some enquiries are far more favoured than others.

Still, mortals are as mortals are, and it does not take Thor long to find the shipyards. Here, amidst the skeletons of the great ships, amid the forges and furnaces and sweat of toiling men he finds his kind. They curse and holler and strive in a multitude of tongues, building an empire the likes of which has never been seen, the fruits of which they will likely never taste.

Thor grins and strips off his shirt. A man of his size and strength will never lack for work in a busy docks and he works hard alongside the mortals, confining himself to being just a little better than them, a wonder but not a threat. The day seems short to him, a few scant hours compared to Asgard’s long golden afternoons, but when the work is done his new-found companions slap him on the back and take him drinking.

Some things will never change and Thor drinks and laughs and winds up in a brawl, siding with a group of outsiders newly arrived purely for old times’ sake; the Norwegians’ speech is flavoured with the Old Tongue he remembers best and so he roars and punches in their favour, a raging force at their head, howling the old battle-cries as they face their hapless foes. Their thanks and admiration sizzles along his skin, a faint echo of the worship of their forefathers, enough for Thor to remember the heady days in Uppsala, the blood-soaked sacrifices and the desperate, clawing need.

Thor is a High God of the Aesir and the son of the Allfather; he needs no prayers to give him power in this Realm, unlike the scurrying superstitions and new-bred legends of the urban landscape. He left the petty, tiny mortals to their own fates long ago, when Asgard cut herself off from this middle realm of dust and ash and ignorance. But the taste of power is pleasing and heightens his awareness of the ley lines that snake through the city, of her beating heart, fed by the millions who crowd into her open arms, her name a prayer of hope for the future.

As he opens himself up to the murky undercurrents of the unknowable he feels a faint tug, as if hearing a familiar laugh on the other side of a crowded room. Thor smiles broadly and bids his dazed followers a good night. He walks the dark alleys and twisting side-streets of the great city alone, a huge and confident man spattered with the blood of others and feels the fear and grudging respect of the cutthroats and thieves who skitter away from him rippling over his skin.

He follows the sly tug until he comes to a well-kept but unremarkable house in a well-kept but unremarkable area of London. He lets himself in within incident and climbs the rickety stairs to a large room on the first floor, soft light seeping through the keyhole of the door. He pushes it open.

Thor is a god of the common man, always has been, just as his father is a god of kings, of rulers and warlords and the men in tailored suits who sit behind closed doors and talk softly until the world changes to as they wish it to be.

Loki is also a god of private rooms and closed doors, but he has always favoured an entirely different sort of gentlemen.

There are perhaps a dozen men in the room in various states of undress, clothes scattered haphazardly amidst the flickering candles and coiled ferns. There is a heavy sweetness in the air and as Thor’s eyes adjust to the dim light he can see the tell-tale signs of smoke and pipes and empty glasses and bottles. The men do not even look up as he enters, their attention entirely focused on the tableau in the centre of the room.

Loki is perched on the lap of one man, who sits on an ornate chair with legs spread wide, slowly working himself onto the man’s cock while a youth kneels at their feet and struggles to properly suck Loki’s cock while palming his own. Loki’s hands are busy stroking the impressive erections of the two men either side of him, one of whom cannot resist leaning into Loki, kissing him hungrily, his mouth and neck stained with absinthe as emerald as Loki’s eyes.

All around them, the watching men are fucking into their hands or each other, eyes glazed over, their movements slow and graceful, as if they were underwater. The minds of mortals are all too easy to overcome, and as the recipient of this concentrated devotion Loki is thrumming with power, his body undulating with it as he laps up the adoration that surrounds him.

Loki always did have a very practical approach to worship, Thor thinks ruefully as he shucks the constricting clothing of this era and settles comfortably into a corner. The air is thick with the musky scent of male desire and white lilies, for all around the writhing men are vases and vases of the thick, waxy flowers, their purity stained by the sticky pollen of the golden stamens. There are orchids too, blooming in the shadows, smelling of rich chocolate and vanilla, and the profusion of scents makes Thor’s head swim, the living blooms melting into the elaborate decadence of the wild mirrors that reflect back fractured visions of flesh and beauty.

Loki sighs, and his adoring worshippers echo the sound, straining against the languorous spell he has caught them in. They have likely been at this for hours, Loki teasing and tormenting his devotees, luxuriating in their ever-more desperate need for him. The man beneath him pushes up jerkily, tendons straining in his neck as he tries for more sensation, more friction, more speed. Loki will have none of it and rises with him, long legs letting him lift himself up, the man fucking him whimpering helplessly as he subsides and Loki resumes his slow, torturous slide up and down his slick cock.

Thor manages to catch his eye and Loki lifts an eyebrow, entirely unrepentant. Thor frowns at him and uncrosses his own legs, glancing pointedly at where his own cock has stirred to life, far thicker and longer than any of these fragile mortals. Loki rolls his eyes in mock-exasperation but he gives a soft, pleased cry, and the men quiver with it, moving faster, fucking harder, baring their teeth and tightening their grip, suddenly frantic with lust.

It takes mere moments after that, the room alive with the wet slap of skin on skin, grunts and moans and sighs becoming higher, deeper, louder as the mortals’ climaxes wash over them, Loki’s own little group the loudest and most desperate of all. The two at his side spill first, thick white ropes of come that criss-cross Loki’s chest like liquid chains. The boy kneeling before him is next, sobbing as he chokes around Loki’s cock, his seed streaked across Loki’s feet like an offering.

Only now does Loki release the man whose lap he sits in, letting him surge up and into Loki, hips working madly as he plunges into Loki’s heat, desperate to come. But at the last moment Loki pulls away, wrenches off him and the man comes into the empty air, his come splashed across Loki’s back and thighs instead of within him.

The mortals slump, each and every one dragged down into unconsciousness by the force of their pleasure. Loki stands in the sea of warm bodies, his own cock still standing proud, and smiles, looking infinitely pleased with himself.

Thor rises from his corner and offers Loki a hand. Loki accepts it easily and allows Thor to lead him to where a huge and elaborate mirror dominates the wall, reflecting back the fruits of Loki’s play. Thor stands Loki in front of it and kisses the back of his neck, watching Loki watch their reflections, watching Loki trail his own hands over his sweat-slick and come-stained chest, pinching at his rosy nipples, toying with his wet cock. Thor grinds his own erection against Loki’s ass and Loki gives a breathy laugh.

Enough, Thor decides, and grips the back of Loki’s neck firmly in order to force him down, bending him in half until he can place his palms on the floor. He can see in the mirror that Loki has twisted his face to the side so he can continue to watch Thor and Thor nods approvingly.

He gathers up the slick mess on Loki’s back and thighs and coats his own cock with it. It’s not much, but Loki is already wet and loose and he exhales slowly as Thor pushes into him, his cock stretching Loki far wider than the hapless mortal had. Loki’s legs tremble with the effort of bracing his folded body against Thor’s weight as he is split open, but his mouth is slack with pleasure and his cock leaps as Thor grunts and settles himself in. He rocks into Loki, gently at first and then with speed, forcing Loki to push back against him as he works his hips with less and less restraint until Loki is gasping, unable to get enough breath into his body to scream, unable to touch himself without falling to the floor.

Thor fucks him as long as he can, for what might be moments or hours or decades in this mayfly world, caring only for the clinging heat of Loki’s body, the perfection of his long limbs, the way his serpent’s eyes never leave the reflection of Thor’s face. When he comes he comes hard, a long low noise escaping as he shudders and empties himself into  Loki’s willing flesh, feeling power crackling within him even as he loses himself in bliss. He pulls out to find flickering points of lightning dancing along his skin and sparking from his eyes, the old, elemental power rising up from the concentrated sexual energy and devotion Loki has become a conduit for.

He falls to his own knees and pulls the trembling Loki onto his lap, wrapping his broad palm around Loki’s cock and stroking him swiftly, letting the lightning add a savage thrill to Loki’s pleasure and watches hungrily as Loki tips his head back and finally screams, a hoarse wail of pure erotic satisfaction as he comes, his seed splattering across the mirror as his body convulses.

Loki subsides in Thor’s arms and Thor gently kisses him, along his spine and along the white column of his throat, over his sharp cheekbones and across his smooth brow until he finally reaches his lips and their breath mingles as they taste each other. Loki smiles properly at him when he pulls back, affectionate and fond as Thor’s come trickles from his ass and pools on Thor’s legs. Thor cannot bring himself to mind it.

They sit like that in idle tenderness, soaking up the residual power that permeates the room, until the thunder booms outside, Thor’s love and lust rolling in to cover London in a sudden cloudburst. Loki kisses him on the lips and Thor lets him go.

Thor will return to Asgard, to his duties as the God-King of Nine Realms, the Allfather a grey and patient shadow behind his throne. He will leave Loki on Midgard, to usher in the new mortal century as he has all others, a green-eyed figure in the shadows, smile swift and gaze sharp. Thor cares not what mischief Loki will make in this new age; so long as he is happy and content with his place, Loki may do as he likes with the petty mortals and their greedy, grasping hearts. He will return when he can, as often as he can, and they will move together through the great mortal herd, scattering them like the chaff they are, terrible and beautiful and wonderful, until the day the sun dies and they go screaming down into the red dark, still side by side and hand in hand, wrapped around each other like the entwined souls they know themselves to be.


	7. Corsets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **6\. Corsets**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Thor/Loki, Victorian AU (1870s), married Lord Thor and kept lover Loki; cross-dressing; jealousy; author's obsession with Victorian clothing
> 
> Ok, this is the last Victorian AU for a while, I _promise_. Since I imagine most people aren't as familiar with nineteenth-century undergarments as I am, [this is what drawers look like](http://www.katetattersall.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/katepantelette.jpg) (note that they are open at the crotch), this is what [Victorian petticoats look like](http://www.knowlesville.com/vintage/getting-dressed.html). [This is what an 1870s cuirasse bodice outfit looks like](http://www.maggiemayfashions.com/firstbustle/cuirass1880.jpg) (it was a relatively short-lived trend) and [this is the style of corset I'm talking about](http://www.au-fil-du-temps.net/MI/1875/MI7nov18754.jpg). [Here](http://www.tudorlinks.com/treasury/articles/viewvictunder2.html) and [here](http://www.katetattersall.com/?p=1842) are excellent guides to Victorian undies in general. For your imaginative pleasure, here are some [beautiful dresses](http://pinterest.com/festiveattyre/victorian-dresses-that-make-me-swoon/) Victorian Loki might wear on the days he actually gets all the way dressed. The more you know...
> 
> EDIT: Oh my God Marty found photos of boys in drag from the 1880s, wrong kind of corset for this fic but [amazing pics, very NSFW!](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/60943475037)

Thor heaves a sigh of relief as the hansom cab finally pulls up to his tall, elegant townhouse. The week spent at his country estate felt like a lifetime, and he is delighted to be back in his London lodgings at last. He lets himself in and makes for the stairs silently, wishing to dispense with all formality; but as he does so he accidentally knocks over the umbrella stand and with the sudden noise the door to the parlour opens and two figures emerge.

“Welcome back, Lord Odinson,” Mrs. Sif says with genuine warmth in her voice, her arm wrapped tightly around the waist of a buxom blonde that Thor dimly recognises as the stage starlet calling herself Amora the Enchantress. “I’ll warn you now: he’s in a foul temper.”

“How bad?” Thor asks anxiously. Sif has been his friend for many a year and he values her opinion on much more than just the proper running of this house and its lodgers.

“He’s broken two cups, a plate and a vase,” Sif says, “and he threw the leather boots you brought him from Edinburgh out of the window. Oh, do not fret,” she adds, laughing at his face, “Fandral retrieved them from the street and they are quite safe. But they are filthy and one of the heels was snapped clean off. I will have them repaired on the morrow.”

“You have my thanks,” Thor says and she smiles at him.

“I hope for your sake your latest gift is as expensive as it looks,” she says, indicating the large gift-wrapped box in his arms. “Good luck!”

The pair return to the brightly-lit and crowded parlour with a cheerful wave. Sif’s gatherings of like-minded ladies and gentlemen are renowned throughout London, at least in those circles where a welcoming and discreet hostess of a private home is to be preferred to the risk of more public establishments. But while he enjoyed many a soiree in her company in his younger, wilder days, that is not why Thor is here tonight.

Thor climbs the stairs to the private third-floor suite, well beyond the reach of any wandering acquaintances of the gentlemen Sif likes to call ‘her boys’. He raps sharply on the door, tapping out a familiar pattern, and then takes a deep breath and enters.

Loki is sprawled on the chaise-lounge, book in hands, and he refuses to look up as Thor enters. He is fresh from his bath, his dark hair damp and curling, wearing only his drawers and a silk and velvet robe in emerald green. He looks absolutely delicious, bar the sneer twisting his fine features.

“And how was your week with _that woman_?” he asks icily as Thor closes the door behind him and crosses to sit at Loki’s feet, placing the gift box at his side. Loki places his feet on Thor’s thighs and lets his book drop to the floor, but raises his gaze to the ceiling instead of Thor’s face.

“My lady wife is quite well,” Thor answers, letting a hint of reproach enter his voice. “She and her companion, the Lady Darcy, are to take the waters at Bath. She sends her regards.”

Loki sniffs. “I have no interest in her _regards_ ,” he says, still not looking at Thor. “Is her belly swollen yet?”

“Loki,” Thor growls, for there is no need to be vulgar. “Jane bears you no ill-will and speaks of you only with kindness and respect. The least you could do is extend her the same courtesy.”

“She has your name, your title and your lands,” Loki snaps, foot kicking out at Thor’s leg, “and now she has had you for a week, the purpose of which, you assured me, was solely to get an heir on her. If she has not fulfilled her duty then she will have claim on you for another week and then another yet. How I am to know that this is not some plot to have you be the husband the world thinks you are, loving and devoted and _hers_?”

“She is my wife is name only, for her part as well as mine,” Thor says patiently. “You know this, Loki. I must have an heir and children are the one gift she cannot get from her Darcy. Believe me, she finds our marital duty as much a chore as I.”

This is quite true, not that Loki will believe it. Thor has found in Jane a witty and loyal friend a shrewd and capable manager of his affairs and absolutely nothing more; he could not ask for better from a marriage of convenience, and trusts that Jane finds him an entirely tolerable husband, being almost entirely absent from the country house where she pursues her passion for astronomy and the sciences alongside her devoted companion Darcy. It would be the perfect arrangement, if not for the fact that Thor once made the mistake of telling Loki how beautiful and charming Jane was, thus earning himself this penance every time he must go away to visit her.

“I am yours, my darling,” Thor continues, daring to take one slim foot into his hands, where he begins to massage the sole, rubbing his broad thumb into the high arches. “And I will prove it to you.”

“Oh? And how do you propose to do that?” Loki asks, still sounding angry, but he does not pull his foot away and Thor hides a grin by pressing a kiss to Loki’s slim ankle.

“By spoiling you as you deserve to be spoiled,” he says, switching his attention to Loki’s other foot, gently spreading Loki’s legs as he does so. “Tomorrow I shall take you to the tailors, or the dressmakers, as you prefer, and to the jewellers and the watchmakers and the haberdashers and even to that patisserie you are so fond of, and I shall not say a word as you attempt to ruin me. I have reserved us a table in your favourite restaurant, and I have also booked our box so we may attend the latest opera in the evening. I can arrange for us to have a private audience with the soprano, Madame Patti, if you so wish.”

“You hate the opera,” Loki observes, letting his legs fall further open as Thor’s hands move slowly up his calf.

“Indeed,” Thor agrees; he loathes it with a passion and he is firmly of the belief that this is one of the factors fuelling Loki’s insatiable desire to go as often as possible. Loki flashes him a smug grin and Thor takes this as an invitation, letting his hands climb further, stroking Loki’s thighs through his drawers. He can just see a hint of skin and dark curls amidst the voluminous fabric and he leans forward, coming up onto his knees so he can part the white cotton to reveal Loki’s crotch.

Loki’s cock is half-hard already and Thor draws it out, pushing the drawers aside for better access. He kisses the soft skin of Loki’s inner thigh and pushes his face into Loki’s pubic bone, inhaling deeply, loving the familiar musky scent as Loki’s cock twitches under his warm breath.

“I shall need an entirely new outfit for such an occasion,” Loki says above him, sounding bored, but he pushes his hips up and the head of his cock bumps along Thor’s lips. Thor hums and lets the very tip of his tongue flicker across Loki’s slit, catching just the slightest taste of pre-come as he does so. Loki’s breathing hitches and Thor smiles broadly before setting to work.

He swallows Loki whole with ease, well-practised at cajoling Loki from his tempers, and is rewarded by a hand slipping into his hair as Loki arches into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the shaft and slowly pulls off, running the flat of his tongue along the underside of Loki’s thickening cock. He laps gently at the head before swallowing again, taking Loki’s swollen cock as deep as he can, own cock twitching at Loki’s poorly-muffled grunt as the head hits the back of Thor’s throat.

He hums again, throat working, and Loki’s hips lift up again, almost choking Thor as he tries to push even deeper. He places on arm across Loki’s stomach and holds him down, shuffling forward on his knees until he is as close as he can get. Loki moans above him as he bobs his head, both hands now tight in Thor’s hair, and he slides his other hand up Loki’s leg and then down the crease of his ass, dipping in to brush across his hole. To Thor’s surprise, it is wet and loose already, and he can ease one and then two fingers in with little difficulty.

The minx, Thor thinks in delight, scissoring his fingers, feeling Loki jerk and buck under his arm, revealing in the taste of him filling his mouth. He continues on until he feels Loki’s thighs begin to shake, his cries begin to rise and then he pulls off and removes his fingers, grinning up at where Loki blinks down at him.

“I have missed the taste of you,” Thor says, licking his lips as Loki regards him with half-lidded eyes. He rises up and attempts to kiss Loki’s inviting lips, but Loki turns his face away and he must settle for chastely brushing his mouth over Loki’s sharp cheekbones.

“Hmph,” is Loki’s only response as his breathing settles and Thor sighs, for he has yet more work to do before he can have Loki where he wants him.

“Do you not wish to open your present?” he asks as he pulls away, wiping his fingers clean before reaching for the box at his side. Loki swiftly abandons his façade of indifference at the sight of the discreetly branded packaging and snatches the box from him, making short work of the elegant wrapping.

“Oh, _Thor_ ,” he says as he opens the box, and Thor thrills at the genuine pleasure in his voice.

“It is the latest style from Paris,” he says proudly as Loki lifts the embroidered silk corset from the box. “This corset is to be worn with a _cuirasse_ bodice and be laced as tightly as possible,” he adds, forehead crinkling as he remembers the advice slip that came with the order. “It should be worn over the petticoats, not under.”

“Thor, it is beautiful,” Loki says, clearly delighted. He has a multitude of green corsets already, as well as blue and red and every other colour Thor could find, to match his equally excessive number of waistcoats, but this one is an entirely new style and so Thor had chosen the rich emerald that Loki loves best, and added two new ruffled black petticoats, since they have a bad habit of ruining those Loki already owns.

Thor retreats to the other side of the room as Loki shrugs off his robe and pulls off his drawers, pouring himself a glass of wine from the bottle waiting on the table while Loki pulls on the new petticoats and unlaces the corset. Thor barely has time to finish his drink before Loki is holding the corset in place and giving Thor an imperious look, which Thor is only too happy to obey.

Thor returns to Loki and obligingly pulls the corset tight and begins to lace it. It is longer than the corsets he is used to seeing Loki in, with a curved front clasp covering his stomach. He pulls hard, grunting as the steam-moulded bones resist him, the reinforced panels forcing Loki’s waist into a pronounced curve.

“Are you well?” he asks anxiously when half-way through: Loki’s waist looks tiny and he is breathing heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly above the armoured structure of the corset.

“Oh, yes,” Loki murmurs, and there is a deep throb in his voice that stirs Thor. “Tighter. Make it tighter.”

Thor kisses Loki’s neck and resumes lacing, but despite Loki’s words he does not in fact pull the corset any tighter than it already is. He has discovered to his peril in the past that Loki is careless of his own limits, and he is far too precious to Thor to be damaged in the name of improving his natural beauty.

“Well?” Loki asks when Thor releases him and takes a seat on a nearby chair. “How do I look?”

Thor licks his suddenly dry lips. The corset has pulled Loki’s already lean figure into a perfect hourglass shape, and the new, longer length accentuates his narrow hips and makes him seem even taller. The double layer of black, ruffled petticoats flare out as he twirls, making his pale skin paler, and drawing the eye down to his sculpted calves and elegant feet. Thor adores Loki’s legs and makes no secret of it, but he also loves Loki’s sinuous grace and in the wonderfully decadent corset he finds him even more alluring.   

Thor cannot find the words to express all of this, but his stunned expression seems to please Loki nonetheless. He approaches Thor slowly, hips swaying, petticoats rippling as he moves, a perfect counterpoint to the restrained perfection of his corseted chest. Thor has to take a moment to adjust himself, to ease the pressure of his trousers against his straining cock, and Loki gives him a sly smirk as he does so, tossing his dark curls back.

“Beautiful,” Thor manages at last, and he can hear the hoarseness in his voice. Loki ducks his head, playing at shyness, and for all Thor knows it is an act it still has him dry-mouthed with desire.

“I suppose I should thank you properly for your kindness,” Loki says, honey-sweet and demure, his sharp edges and foul humour vanishing like the dew; he is ever the talented liar, Thor thinks, but there is not much room left for thinking as Loki slinks closer and unfastens the buttons of Thor’s trousers, letting Thor’s desperate cock spring free.

Loki bends over and gives Thor’s cock a playful kiss before reaching for the oil on the side-table, one of many vials Loki keeps all over the apartment. He coats Thor’s cock liberally and palms him with smooth, steady strokes, enough to tease but nowhere near enough to satisfy, a wicked smile playing across his lips as he observes Thor’s torment.

“Loki,” Thor says, bucking up into Loki’s clever fingers, “darling, please, I have missed you so -”

Loki laughs and at last climbs into his lap, guiding the head of Thor’s cock to his waiting hole. Thor groans as Loki sinks down, taking every inch of Thor into his body, finally coming to rest against Thor’s thighs, panting heavily. Thor lifts the mass of petticoats and pushes them back, exposing Loki’s legs and cock, the skirts trailing behind him like a waterfall. He wraps a hand around Loki’s cock and coaxes him back to hardness, forcing himself to hold still, focusing on how Loki struggles to get air into his lungs, gasping as he tries to adjust to being impaled on Thor’s cock.

It is not until Loki’s cock is flushed and fully hard, pre-come leaking from the head as Thor rubs his thumb over the slit, that Loki takes a deep, shuddering breath and rolls his hips. Thor groans again and his own hips jerk in response as he tries to push even further into Loki’s hot, tight ass. Loki gives a breathy ‘oh’ and Thor does it again, fucking up as much as he can, hand wrapped tightly around Loki’s own cock where it leaps from his gathered skirts.

“You look so beautiful,” Thor tells him, voice wrecked, because he does, oh, he does, bare legs wrapped tightly around Thor’s waist, hands tight on Thor’s shoulders, helping Thor to fuck him by working his hips, every fluid motion setting the petticoats to rustling, eyes dark and pupils wide as he pants, the whalebones in the corset creaking as he sucks in air.

Thor has little leverage but he does not mind as he fucks Loki slowly and sweetly, with big, powerful hip movements, muscles tensing as he drives up and into Loki’s willing body. Loki moves with him, barely able to moan as he gasps and shudders, whining as Thor shifts his weight and succeeds in dragging his cock over Loki’s prostrate. They move faster now, wanting more, but desperate for this to last, for it has been a week, far too long, and both would wipe out the memory of Thor’s dull and dutiful coupling with his reluctant wife and replace with this, with the image of Loki in shimmering silk, his cock slipping between Thor’s fingers, Thor baring his teeth as he gives in and pushes harder, fucks faster.

It is good and glorious and growing more and more intense in each moment, the sweet sensation of impending climax rising up in Thor, from the heat in his belly through his throbbing cock, but it is Loki who comes first, cock spurting almost without warning, his lips forming a perfect ‘o’ as his orgasm takes him almost by surprise, too swift and savage for him to manage any sound beyond a sudden high-pitched keen. His come splatters against Thor’s chest and stomach, staining his silk waistcoat, and his ass clamps down tightly on Thor’s cock, pushing him over the edge mere moments later, Thor giving a long, low moan as he empties himself into Loki.

And now, at last, Loki meets his questing lips with his own and lets Thor have his fill, kissing slowly and lazily in the aftermath of their pleasure. His waistcoat is entirely ruined and likely his trousers too, but he cannot bring himself to care. Loki breaks from kissing him to snuggle against him, warm and loving and gentle in Thor’s arms and Thor loves him, loves him so dearly he never wants to move again.

“I am glad you are home,” Loki murmurs, voice muffled where his face is pressed into Thor’s neck.

“As am I, my love,” Thor replies, holding him tight, for his home is in Loki’s arms and nowhere else, and he would have it no other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Backstory/headcanon for this AU now up at my tumblr](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/71423546360) ;)


	8. Dominance and submission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **8\. Dominance/submission**
> 
> Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth; BDSM, caning
> 
> And now for something completely different! Based on [this image](http://beautflstranger.tumblr.com/post/49093429397) and [this gifset](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/59696973277) because HNG. My first foray into BDSM so any errors are unintentional and all feedback appreciated! Oh, and yes, I know that's a riding crop and not a cane, but I thought caning worked better (and I have other plans for the crop, oh yes).

“Get on your knees.”

Tom obeys instantly, sinking gracefully into position, ankles crossed, head bowed. Chris circles him, correcting him slightly with the head of the cane, pushing Tom’s crossed arms up high so his palms rest on the back of his neck and not the small of his back.

“Why are you being punished, boy?” Chris asks as he circles, appreciating the way Tom’s muscles now seem more defined, his shoulders broader, contrasting beautifully with his long, stocking-clad legs.

“Because I broke a rule, sir,” Tom replies, keeping his gaze on the floor even as Chris uses the cane to tilt his head up to a better position.

“What rule?”

“Not to touch myself without your permission, sir.”

“That’s right,” Chris says, stepping back. “Your satisfaction is in my hands, not yours. What happens when you break a rule, boy?”

“I am punished, sir,” Tom says, completing the circular conversation and his humble tone is entirely at odds with the way his cock is swelling, straining at the silky fabric of his black thong.

“That’s right,” Chris says again. “You are a disobedient wretch and you have brought this on yourself. You will be given six stripes of the cane. You will hold this position while I punish you. You may cry out, but you may not move.  Do you understand, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Tom says, and Chris doesn’t miss the way his voice hitches. He considers telling Tom he will add a stroke for every time Tom begs for mercy, with the intent of bringing it up to a full dozen, but Tom is unruly enough as is, and would likely bring more punishment on himself on purpose. It is Chris’s task to administer the strokes as punishment, not reward, and six will be enough to have Tom squirming without bringing him to his limit.

With this in mind, Chris slowly slips off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, leaving Tom taut and waiting in the centre of the living room. He stands behind him and looks his fill, admiring Tom’s firm ass and pale skin. They stay like that in silence for a long moment, until Chris sees a fine tremor beginning in Tom’s thighs and then, suddenly, without warning, steps to the side, raises the cane and brings it down hard on Tom’s asscheeks.

Tom gasps, too shocked to cry out, but Chris is already swinging again and the second hit lands almost parallel to where the first is blooming an angry red. Tom yelps like a dog, high-pitched and needy, and Chris lands the third and fourth in swift succession, creating four nearly perfect horizontal stripes across the meat of Tom’s buttocks, none touching, crimson welts rising from his milky skin. This is a punishment, not a game, and while Chris is careful not to hit wildly, he a great deal of strength and this is not the first time Tom has brought suffering on himself. He knows exactly what his wilful boy can take and that is exactly what he gives, hard and brutal and painful, enough to have Tom sore for the rest of the evening and aching tomorrow. He can hear Tom sobbing, but he has not yet cried out as Chris would like.

Very well. Chris raises his arm higher and the cane whistles as it cuts through the air, the pitch lowering to a hiss just before it strikes. He aims lower and this time the strike lands on the top of Tom’s thighs, just where they meet his buttocks, and now Tom does cry out loudly, a great wrenching sob as his body jerks forward. Chris pauses but Tom keeps his balance, holds position, and so Chris does it again, one cane’s width lower, mindful of the power and strength on this delicate area. Tom howls as the sixth stroke lands, voice breaking, and his whole body shakes with the effort of remaining on his knees, of keeping his back straight and arms high.

Chris stalks from his place at Tom’s side to in front of him, and grabs him roughly by the chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. Tom’s eyes are huge and tears are pouring down his cheeks; he gulps and whimpers in Chris’s grip. It is a stirring sight, but Chris needs to be sure Tom has learnt his lesson.

“What do we say?” Chris growls, low and deep.

“Thank you, sir,” Tom sobs, “I’m sorry, sir, thank you, sir, I’m sorry…”

Chris rubs his thumb over Tom’s lips and he opens them without hesitation, lapping at the pad of Chris’s thumb even as he takes a deep, shaky breath. Chris looks down to where Tom’s straining cock has escaped the confines of his panties and bobs with the trembling of Tom’s legs, pre-come oozing down the flushed head. He releases Tom’s face and undoes his own flies, keeping his sigh behind his teeth as his own aching erection is finally freed.

“You don’t deserve this, do you?” he says to Tom, rubbing the head of his cock over Tom’s wet lips. Tom shudders and looks at him, eyes pleading, tongue flickering out. Chris jerks back and slaps Tom across the face. Tom rocks with the impact.

“You will speak when spoken to, boy!” Chris roars and Tom nods dreamily, pupils blown.

“Yes sir, I mean, no, sir,” he says, voice thick and slurring. “I don’t deserve it, sir.”

“No, you don’t, greedy boy,” Chris agrees, stepping closer, pushing his cock into Tom’s slack mouth. “But I am willing to be generous. You may suck me. What do you say?”

“Thank you, sir,” Tom slurs around Chris’s thick cock, and he sets to work with a frantic enthusiasm, head bobbing as he swallows Chris up and then pulls off, tongue twisting around the shaft and head. Chris winds a hand into his hair and guides him firmly, pulling him back when Tom starts to choke, yanking painfully to remind Tom of the rules. Tom’s eyes flutter but he controls himself a little, moaning as he sucks desperately on Chris’s cock, his mouth hot and wet and perfect.

Chris glances down to check but, no, Tom isn’t touching himself, is keeping his hands on the back of his neck despite the fact he must be desperately uncomfortable by now, and so Chris lets himself feel it, rocks his hips with more and more force, thinking of the crimson welts on Tom’s skin, of how big and beautiful his tear-filled eyes are, and he grunts as his climax hits him, Tom gagging as he floods his mouth with his come. He remains lodged in Tom’s mouth through the aftershocks, forcing Tom to swallow around him, and when he finally pulls out Tom gasps, chest heaving, his face streaked with tears and saliva.

He stares at Chris, mute and pleading, and Chris is so proud of him, for holding his tongue, holding his form and for being such a good, beautiful boy.

“Come here,” he commands and Tom staggers to his feet, shoulders popping as he finally lowers his arms, unsteady on his shiny black heels. Chris takes pity on him and offers an arm, which Tom gratefully accepts. “On the sofa,” Chris orders and Tom gingerly moves towards to is, grimacing as he moves. “On the cushion,” Chris says and Tom lowers himself onto it, whimpering as his abused flesh makes contact with the cool leather.

“That’s a good boy,” Chris says and Tom’s eyes brighten, a smile flickering across his face as Chris straddles him, flies still open, boxing Tom in without actually touching him. He puts one broad hand on Tom’s chest with just enough force to hold him down, keep him in place, and wraps his other around Tom’s desperate cock. Tom whines, his chest and throat as red as his cock and ass, and Chris works him hard and fast, telling him how good he looks like that, spread out for Chris, his beautiful boy, so obedient and beautiful and good -

Tom comes in seconds, howling just as loudly as when Chris caned him and Chris lets him ride it out, lets him buck and jerk beneath him, eyes rolling and body arching. He’s earned it.

Tom slumps, barely conscious, and Chris drops a light kiss on his forehead before standing and heading into the kitchen for the water and a damp towel. He cleans the sluggish Tom gently, peppering him with kisses and fond words and making him drink, before easing off Tom’s heels and stockings and underwear, careful as he slides the bunched panties over Tom’s ass and thighs. He has to manually roll Tom onto his stomach so he can apply the topical cream to the stripes; they’re still burning hot as he rubs the cooling cream in as lightly and gently as he can, Tom twitching as he does so.

“All better, darling,” he says softly, kissing Tom on the mouth. Tom sighs and murmurs against him, eyes closed. “Time for bed,” Chris says and sweeps Tom up in his arms, supporting him under the shoulders and knees, letting him sag in the middle, just about able to carry him into the bedroom and deposit him on the bed. Tom immediately rolls from his side back to his stomach and Chris mimics him, cuddling up close so their hips and shoulders bump, but nothing else.

“Good night, love,” he says and Tom cracks his eyes open long enough to smile at him, silly and pleased and utterly blissful, but slips away into sleep too fast to say anything at all. He’ll grumble in the morning, fidgeting as he sits, but he’ll keep that silly smile all day and that, that’s really what Chris does it for, to have his Tom calm and relaxed and loving, and happy, most of all.


	9. Inappropriate location

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **26\. Sex at work/school/ancestral home/other wildly inappropriate location**
> 
> Thor/Loki; human AU, oral sex, sex in the front garden
> 
> Based on [this awesome fanart](http://realloveormadness.tumblr.com/post/61151612660/its-quite-hot-in-canada-this-week-this-picture)!

It is blisteringly hot for mid-September; yet another long, lazy day of cloudless blue skies and wall-to-wall sunshine. Loki cannot bear to put on more than a loose pair of cargo shorts and spends the morning looking wistfully though his collection of scarves and coats and cashmere jumpers, bought new just last week when the Autumn/Winter collections began to drop in stores. They are utterly inappropriate for the sticky, humid heat nature is luxuriating in, as she insists on this last hurrah for the summer, the world green and languid instead of crimson and crisp. Loki _hates_ it, hates it bitterly, and longs for the bite of winter.

There is one consolation though. Thor is sauntering around the garden in his board shorts and the thinnest of thin white t-shirts, patches of sweat making the flimsy fabric translucent in the bright noonlight. He is taking advantage of the late sunshine to tidy the garden before the season turns, his muscles rippling tantalisingly as he mows the lawn, weeds the beds and unravels the hose to water the plants. Strands of hair have worked themselves free from his practical ponytail and he pushes at them absentmindedly as he works, leaving streaks of dirt across his face.

Loki licks the beads of sweat from above his lip. Thor looks good enough to eat, damp and earthy and shining like burnished gold, and Loki is bored and sticky and restless and, above all else, too damn hot.

“Loki!” Thor says, grinning, when Loki slinks from the shade of the house to where Thor is now watering the thick border hedge. “You look terribly overheated. Would you like me to cool you off?” Thor flicks the hose playfully in Loki’s direction, just catching him with the fine spray, the water trickling down Loki’s bare chest.

“Not exactly,” Loki demurs, glancing around; the suburban street is utterly deserted, with no nosy neighbours or passers-by. Perfect. He quickly inserts himself between Thor and the hedge, Thor giving him a bemused look, before falling to his knees. He’s perfectly concealed like this, hidden like in the shade of the hedgerow, but Thor remains exposed from the waist up, eyes widening as he looks down at Loki.

“You cannot mean to -” he hisses in a low voice, but Loki has already begun, tugging at Thor’s shorts until his thick cock hangs free. Loki has always been quick to take advantage of Thor’s dislike of underwear, and today is no different; he gives the surprised Thor a wicked grin before leaning in to kiss his cock. It stirs under his lips, giving the lie to Thor’s frantic “Loki! No!”

“Thor,” he laughs, trailing kisses over the thickening shaft and the loose foreskin, “Thor, yes.” He lifts one free hand to squeeze Thor’s tight ass and the other strokes Thor’s swelling cock and dips his head to mouth at Thor’s balls, lapping gently before taking them one at a time into his mouth and humming lightly. Above him, Thor sighs, and his own free hand drops to rest on Loki’s head, stroking his hair. Victory, Loki thinks smugly, and returns his attention to Thor’s now prominent erection.

In Loki’s opinion, it is far too hot for anything rough and fast, and so Loki takes his time, eyes closed, revelling into the musky smell of Thor’s arousal and the tang of his sweat, the smell of cut grass and late-blooming flowers all around them, the insistent buzzing of insects and the noticeable hitch in Thor’s breathing every time Loki slides his tongue over his cockhead. He licks a lazy stripe along the thick shaft, tracing the underside vein with his tongue, just flicking around the flushed head, tasting the bead of pre-come that has bubbled up before returning to his slow, teasing caress. Thor is doing a pretty poor job of watering, swinging the hose aimlessly from side to side, but he makes no move to stop and move their fun indoors so Loki happily continues, swirling his tongue around the crown without actually taking any of Thor’s length into his mouth.

“Loki,” Thor says quietly, his hand tightening in Loki’s hair and then sliding down, his thumb rubbing over Loki’s cheekbones. Loki looks up to see a definite flush spreading up Thor’s neck, his pupils blown and expression hungry. Loki could tease him like this for hours, were it not for his own cock, aching and uncomfortable in the confines of his shorts, and for the fact that he can appreciate that the heat makes Thor impatient, even if it does the opposite to him.

“Very well,” he says in mock-irritation, but even this melts away as Thor smiles down at him, his own personal sun, all his light and warmth devoted solely to Loki. It is impossible to refuse him when he smiles like that and Loki is of no mind to try, opening his mouth wide and swallowing Thor’s cock in one fluid movement, cheeks hollowing as he sucks hard on the rigid flesh.

Thor grunts and he rocks on the balls of his feet, pushing forward as he tries to get deeper, but there is no further to go; Loki shifts with the movement and resumes his sucking, swallowing around Thor’s frankly enormous cock as best as he can, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady even as his eyes water. He loves this, loves having Thor desperate and needy, and the way Thor’s cock fills his mouth and stretches his lips wide has his own hips twitching. He slides a hand to his own stiff cock and takes himself in hand, spreading his own pre-come over his erection so he can palm himself slowly as he pulls off Thor’s cock enough to swirl his tongue around the slick head, swallowing the copious pre-come before working it back in until it nudges against the back of his throat.

He can feel Thor’s legs shaking with the effort of remaining relatively still and he squeezes him affectionately with the hand still resting on his ass, encouraging him to move, to fuck into Loki’s mouth as he so clearly wants to –

“Good afternoon!” Thor says cheerfully and Loki freezes. Thor is talking to someone over the hedge. Loki has no idea who it might be and certainly no intention of finding out. Thor sounds a little winded but is otherwise doing an admirable job of not sounding like he has Loki’s mouth wrapped around his cock, his body rigid with tension even as he chatters amicably. Loki’s heart pounds, blood surging, his languid ease shattered by the sudden rush of fear-induced adrenalin as Thor makes idle small talk above his head.  The conversation stretches on for interminable minutes before Thor shouts a goodbye and releases Loki’s head to wave whoever it is off.

“Fuck,” Thor says quietly, as the sound of footsteps fades into the distance; he sounds half-dismayed and half as if he might burst into laughter. “Loki – that was close -”

But Loki’s blood is singing and his pulse is racing and he growls around Thor’s cock, pulls him closer and digs his fingers into the meat of his buttocks. Thor seems to understand exactly how he feels for he responds instantly, dropping the damn hose and grabbing Loki’s head so he can fuck his face properly, body surging against Loki, breathing harsh as Loki swallows desperately around him, saliva pouring from his mouth as Thor uses him brutally, his own hand frantic on his cock, everything in him burning, coalescing into a white-hot coil deep in his belly that burns and burns and burns –

Thor gives a choked moan and comes, flooding Loki’s mouth as he pours into him, his come thick and bitter and delicious as Loki swallows it up. He pulls out almost instantly, to the relief of Loki’s aching jaw, and drops to the ground, pushing Loki back and yanking his shorts down until he can bat his hand away and wrap his own mouth around Loki’s cock, hot and wet, and it takes mere moment of Thor’s tongue on his cock and his hand tight over Loki’s mouth and the pleasure in Loki flashes along his spine and up his cock and he comes with a wail that is thankfully entirely muffled by Thor’s palm.

They lay there in the shade, panting furiously, soaked in sweat, the hose writhing beside them, until Thor sits up and starts to laugh uproariously. Loki is relaxed and boneless in his post-orgasmic haze, and not quite sure what is so funny, but Thor’s laughter is infectious and so he joins in and they sit there laughing like madmen, shorts tangled around their legs, sticky and covered in dirt, happy and sun-soaked in the last of the summer days.


	10. Double penetration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **9\. Double penetration**
> 
> Jotun Loki/Jotun Thor, intersex Loki & intersex Thor, discussion of mpreg (jotun preg?), weird power dynamics, alternative cultural norms, dominant Loki and submissive Thor
> 
> Heed the warnings please people! This one is a bit different to my usual fare and a very off-the-wall approach to double penetration :)
> 
> Based on [seidrs stunning fanart of jotun thor and loki-king](http://seidrs.tumblr.com/post/60387044429/ive-grown-attached-to-the-idea-of-jotun-thor-and). So [mrhiddles wrote an amazing story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/953875) with gorgeous world building and feels and plot and general all around awesomeness inspired by the glory that is seidrs' art and I present you with...kinky porn *facepalm* I can't help it, just look at this [stunning jotun thor unf](http://seidrs.tumblr.com/post/59078755244/slides-over-to-u-and-whispers-manically-let-me)
> 
> Also based on my own favoured jotun headcanon, which is that in jotun society sex has some heavy dominance/submission overtones, and prospective partners fight for the right to be on top - except that as a monogendered culture, on top means 'to be penetrated'; the thinking being that the dominant partner is taking the seed of the weaker in order to get babies (lots of babies = higher status), and the weaker will damn well lie there and take it and hope their stronger partner can get it up again after for their turn :)

“I want you to take me,” Loki says between kisses, balanced precariously on Thor’s lap, so close Thor cannot properly focus on his face.

“My King?” Thor asks, confused, for he cannot possibly have heard right. Thor may be stronger in body, and so perhaps capable, should he try, of overpowering and dominating Loki’s slimmer frame, but he would never do so. He has served Loki all his life; first as loyal servant of his Prince and now as honoured Kingsguard for his ruler. Loki has the right to take Thor’s cock into his cunt, to claim Thor’s flesh for his own pleasure and to take his seed for a child that Thor would have no claim to. Thor is his, to use at his whim, and it is Thor’s place to lie on his back and be used, the pleasure he gets from the act only a reminder that all that is good in his life comes from his King.

It is one thing for him to offer up his body to his King, to allow Loki to take what he has allowed from no other. No matter how much the larger and seemingly stronger jötunn warriors tried, none ever managed to put him on his back and claim him. But once he was brought to Loki’s side, given a place in the young Prince’s household as a conveniently sized playmate and toy both, he found himself cherished and wanted and only too gladly gave up his pride and body. But for Loki to do the same? Impossible. A King cannot submit to his thrall.

“You heard me,” Loki says, nipping at Thor’s ear, face tucked away. “I want you to have me, as I have had you.”

“I am not worthy,” Thor says, and he means no coyness, no false modesty. He is a runt, a halfbreed by-blow from the war with the Aesir, unwanted and unclaimed, proof of his mixed blood in his small size and peculiarly fair hair. That Loki alone in Jotunheim shares his small stature and strange features means nothing; all know the Royal Houses of the Nine Realms share blood and Loki has more than proved himself Laufey’s trueborn heir in slaying his father and brothers both to claim the throne.

“I say you are,” Loki says, steely and sure. “Are you so arrogant as to defy the word of your King?”

“Never,” Thor replies anxiously, “but such a thing would be -”

“A great pleasure for us both,” Loki says, cutting him off. “It is not your place to decide what is proper and what is shameful. It is mine. Your place is to obey.”

Thor pulls back and now Loki meets his eyes, fierce and demanding; it is a look Thor knows well and it means his King will brook no arguments in having his way. It is a truth that has always comforted Thor: in a world where he felt forever out of place, Loki’s firm hand and implacable resolve gave Thor a much-needed anchor, a surety of purpose that let him sharpen himself into the weapon he feels he was born to be. It has been a dizzying ascent, from hapless runt, too feeble to even call the ice to his hands, to the youngest member of the Kingsguard and Loki’s most favoured warrior, and it has all rested on Thor’s trust and faith in Loki’s judgement.

“I live to serve,” Thor says, the words familiar and reassuring in his mouth. “I hear and obey, my King.”

“Good,” Loki says, expression softening. “I have something in mind for us, something of my own design.”

Thor smiles a little hesitantly, but remains still and quiet. He has had no other lover than Loki, for before him he would not submit and yet could not take, for who would ever let themselves be taken by the likes of him? Loki has never minded, has always treated him kindly and with a fondness he has never had from anyone else. He wants to be the best that he can for Loki, always.

“I cannot let you put me on my back,” Loki says, and Thor nods; he would not shame him so. “But there is another way for us both to take and be taken, if you are willing.”

It takes Thor a moment to puzzle out Loki’s meaning and then it hits him. Loki means for them to fuck and be fucked simultaneously, so that neither will be dominant over the other. It is a thing he has never even imagined, certainly never heard of or seen done by the huge warriors who fight amongst themselves for mating rights and privileges.

“My King…” he says but he does not know what to say to Loki’s generosity. “I am yours to command,” he hedges.

Loki makes a displeased face. “Do you not want this?” he asks irritably. “Do you care nothing for this gift from your King?”

“I do,” Thor assures him, daring to lean in for a quick kiss. “It is more than I ever hoped for,” he says earnestly, for now the idea has settled in his mind he does want it, wants desperately to know Loki in this new way, to offer him something no-one else ever has.

This seems enough for Loki, who lifts himself from Thor’s lap and leads Thor to his vast bed, built to accommodate two full size jötnar and so more than enough for two half-sized lovers. Thor is only too willing to lie down and let Loki arrange him, Loki’s brow creased as he finds a way to make this new kind of fucking work. He lines them up carefully, each on their side, propped up on an elbow, and then interlocks their legs and tilts their pelvises until they can just manage to get their cocks in line with the other’s cunt.

It will work, just about, but it is an awful lot of effort and Thor is not sure that it is worth it.  Loki shushes him firmly when he tries to protest.

“I want this, Thor,” he says, demanding even as he slides his fingers along Thor’s cunt, teasing at his folds and gently spearing him, getting him good and wet. “If you will not take this as a gift for yourself, then think of it as something I want. You always give me what I want.”

“Of course,” Thor huffs, mouth falling open as Loki teases him, bucking into Loki’s long, nimble fingers. “I love you and -”

“Then do as I say and lie still,” Loki says with a sharp grin and Thor bites off a moan as he slides four fingers inside, spreading him wide and igniting a familiar burn low in his belly.

“You will like it,” Loki promises, working Thor’s cunt thoroughly, ignoring where Thor’s cock slaps against his belly as his hips roll. ““Perhaps you may even get a child from me,” Loki says softly, withdrawing his fingers and lining up his own cock with Thor’s cunt, gently bumping the head against Thor’s wet and open entrance, and Thor does moan at that, shuddering just at the thought of it, of him, the worthless runt, carrying a child of the King’s blood, every warrior at court looking on his swollen belly with envy, he and Loki carrying together and birthing together, their children growing up alongside each other, brothers in blood if not in name.

It is a dizzying thought, one that he has never dared to dream before now. Loki smiles at him as if he can read his mind and perhaps he can, for he kisses his brow as he slowly pushes forward and – and it is – it is –

Thor gasps, back arching, as Loki’s cock breaches him, as his wet cunt stretches to accommodate him. It doesn’t hurt but it is – it is a dull ache, somewhat uncomfortable, and yet he is shivering with it, excitement and a thrilling pleasure shooting through him from the indescribable sensation of being opened and filled at last, at long last.

“Thor?” Loki asks as he stills and Thor realises that Loki is only half-way in.

“Yes, I am – I am well,” he says in wonder, for he is. Loki kisses him again and then shifts, angling his body and reaching down to wrap his hand around Thor’s almost forgotten cock. Loki guides it to his own slick folds and slides the head into his own cunt. Loki’s brow is furrowed and he is biting his lip in concentration, but Thor cannot move to help, can barely breathe as the familiar delicious feeling of Loki’s cunt gripping his cock wars with the overwhelmingly new sense of Loki’s cock in his own cunt.

Slowly, carefully, Loki adjusts their bodies, working himself closer and closer to the prone and trembling Thor, their cocks inching more deeply into each other’s tight cunts. It is too much, far too much, and by the time both are fully seated they are drenched in sweat and the air is filled with their desperate panting.

“Loki,” Thor chokes out, too far gone to remember his place or anything beyond the wet heat gripping and spearing him, “Loki, I can’t, I _can’t_ -”

“You can,” Loki says, though he can barely manage to speak himself. “We can, we can, my Thor, I – oh, Thor, _Thor_ -” He rolls his hips and Thor follows the movement without thinking, their bodies automatically falling into sync, their movements slow and fluid, quite unlike their usual rough and ready fucking.

Thor is glad of this, for he is not sure he would survive anything more than the gentle, steady friction of their slow grinding. His overstimulated body is perilously close to climax already, the blood pounding though his veins as he feels Loki move inside him, sees Loki’s pupils blown, takes in the sheer shock on his face, realises that Loki is just as overwhelmed by the intensity of this strange new experience.

He keeps waiting for the feeling to lessen, to ease, for him to adapt to it, but though his body has relaxed enough that the dull ache in his cunt has turned to a melting pleasure, he still cannot catch his breath, cannot sink into the easy rhythm of fucking as he usually does. It is raw and savage and brutal and yet all they are doing is moving their hips in small, slow circles, all their strength leashed and bound in straining thighs and grasping hands.

Thor cannot last; he thinks he was not meant to feel like this, his body shaking and a thousand points of bliss sparking between his cunt and his cock. It is not like any climax he has ever had before, for the pleasure is rising in sweeping waves, his body contracting as it mounts and then recedes, only to return moments later, fiercer and stronger. Loki seems to be suffering the same delicious agony, his eyes wild, and Thor gropes blindly for his hand and locks their fingers together as another wave peaks.

Thor tries to form the words to ask Loki if this is what he expected, if this is how it usually is for him, but he cannot keep the breath in his lungs to do so, utterly consumed by the liquid feeling centred on his cunt, a complete contrast to the sensation of electricity rippling along his cock, unable to focus on anything but the rising tide of his orgasm, which builds and builds to a height he had thought impossible, falling away every time he thinks he must come, lifting his frantically straining body to a new height after each plateau, his entire body alive with the intensity of it.

He is going to die, he thinks desperately, as he shudders and Loki squeezes his hand before doing the same himself, this is going to kill him, he can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_ and then he tumbles over the edge and his orgasm slams into him like a storm, shaking him furiously as he screams and thrashes, dimly aware that Loki has followed him down, suddenly feeling a hot, wet gush inside in him that can only be Loki’s come, oh, _oh_ , Loki has come in him, Loki has filled him up with come and he screams again, his own cock spurting weakly as he peaks and falls again, body clamping down on Loki’s cock, Loki’s own cries ringing in his ears.

It takes an age for the pulsing aftershocks to die away, leaving them both exhausted and boneless, utterly wrung out. Loki gently eases them apart, wincing a little as their strained muscles protest, and Thor gasps at the feeling of Loki’s cock slipping free from Thor’s cunt and then again as his seed spills out of Thor in a sudden gush. He is too overwhelmed to rise and fetch the clean water and towels as he normally would, and Loki does not seem to think of it, immediately lying back down next to Thor.

Thor curls into him, seeking comfort, looking for the steady hands and knowing smile that have guided him all his life. But Loki seems as shocked and unsteady as he is and he too clings to Thor, resting his forehead against him, their bodies tangled together in a hopeless knot of sweat-slick limbs.

This frightens Thor, for he fears he has brought shame to his King, has undone him or hurt him in some way, and he makes himself as small and low as he can, trying to keep Loki’s head above his own. It is a futile effort, entangled as they are, but Loki notices his shifting and his glazed eyes clear as his gaze sharpens.

“You have done well,” he says, and his voice shakes only a little. “You have pleased your King.”

That is enough for Thor and he subsides. Loki kisses him gently and slips a hand between them, splaying his fingers across Thor’s flat belly.

“We shall do this again,” he says, and now his voice is steady and his eyes flash with determination when Thor looks up in mute appeal. “We shall, Thor. Again and again, until we both have a child of our own. We shall found a new dynasty, of Kings and great warriors to stand beside the throne, and our line shall carry on into eternity, until none remember that any ever dared mock us for being stunted in body and strange in mind.”

Thor looks at him blankly, for he has never heard the latter part, but Loki is far away, face twisted into a feral sneer.

“You will do this for me,” Loki snarls, his anger sudden and unfathomable. “Swear it, Thor. You are mine.”

“My King,” Thor says helplessly, confused and lost, and yet thrilling at the thought of having Loki again, of breeding him and being bred, of binding himself to Loki in body and by blood. “I hear and obey.”


	11. Getting caught having sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **15\. Getting caught having sex**
> 
>  
> 
> Concubine Thor/Jotun Loki, intersex Loki, sexual slavery, descriptions of violence, character death (not Thor or Loki)
> 
> So [marty-mc drew this gorgeous Concubine Thor/Laufey art](http://marty-mc.tumblr.com/post/61140789936/commission-for-alma-thor-concubine-of-king) for [ayonoi's awesome headcanon](http://ayonoi.tumblr.com/post/61237951081/marty-mc-ayonoi-marty-mc-commission-for) and it sparked something entirely different in my brain. Ayonoi was kind enough to give me permission to borrow Concubine Thor for this fic, and so I wrote [a Thor/Laufey piece that actually follows what she wanted as a thank you](http://archiveofourown.org/works/969506). This fic is instead mostly based on The Mummy and a sudden desire for (relatively) fluffy Thorki porn.

Loki shifts impatiently behind the heavy curtains as the Council Elders droning finally comes to an end. From his hidden vantage point he has a greatly reduced view of the most powerful jötunn in his father’s kingdom, and cannot quite hear the members at the other side of the room, but then, he is not here to spy on the tiresome question of next year’s fishing quotas or gather notes on the fractured alliances and feuds of the council members.

Laufey-King is a looming shadow in the corner of his eye, imperious and cold, sprawled on his throne like the cruel warlord that he is. He says little, but his gaze passing over a pair of quarrelling speakers is enough to have them stuttering into silence. Loki cannot quite see the exact expression that has the power to quell angry lords, but then, neither is he here to learn proper Kingship from a father who refuses to see his runt son as anything other than an inconvenience.

 Loki has spent years doing all of these things, and is well tired of doing so, for he is by now quite the expert in manipulating the tangled mess of simmering dissent and fury that passes for politics in Jotunheim. No, Loki is here for one reason, and that reason is currently standing next to the throne and studiously avoiding glancing at where Loki is hiding. Thor, his father’s favourite concubine and glittering golden prize, stands proud and unbowed despite the slave’s collar around his neck and the painted lines on his bare skin that brand him as a possession of the King.

The one advantage this hiding place has over the many others Loki knows and uses is that from here he has an excellent view of Thor’s place at his father’s side, and that view has kept Loki quite happy for the last few hours, enjoying the way Thor tosses his hair back and shifts his weight from one powerfully muscled leg to the other. Thor has no voice in these meetings, being present as an ornament only, called on to occasionally pass the wine goblet or fetch some small sweetmeat, should his King desire it. Laufey desires little today, and Thor seems as bored as Loki, his fidgeting becoming more obvious next to Laufey’s rigid stillness.

The silence in the room drags out until Laufey stands and without further ceremony walks out, leaving his Council to mutter among themselves a little before filing out in small groups, eyeing each other warily. No-one spares a glance for the King’s concubine, left by the throne like a discarded cape, a thing of no use or purpose to the other jötnar, for the King will not share what he has claimed as his. Where such a concubine goes or what he does when the King does not call for him is of no consequence to anyone, not even to Laufey, so long as Thor remains within reach for when the summons does come.

The heavy doors clang shut and Thor exhales noisily, rubbing his face in an almost child-like gesture, already turning from the throne towards where Loki is hidden. Loki steps out and Thor’s smile lights up his face.

“Beloved,” Loki says, opening his arms wide and Thor sweeps him up in a tight hug, crushing him to his chest.

“My Prince,” he says, kissing Loki hungrily. “My Loki, my love.”

They don’t have long; they never do. But this is their best opportunity, for no-one ever comes to the Council Chamber after a meeting, for it is a dull and dreary room and of no interest. Laufey-King is always bad-tempered after the meetings and will work out his frustrations in training with his warriors and eating and drinking his fill, and only then will he think to call for his pretty Aesir slave to sate his other lusts on.

Thor would likely be happy enough to sit and talk and hold Loki close, for he has a long night ahead of him, but Loki has not spent the past three hours staring at girdle that sits on Thor’s hips merely to trade words with him.

“Come here,” Loki says with a smirk, sliding his hands over Thor’s chest until he meets the fabric wrapped around his hips. “I have missed you so.”

Thor lets him move them back to the throne, covering Loki’s face and neck with kisses, and lifts Loki up on to the high seat, in truth too tall for either of them, but an ideal height for Loki to sit on the edge and wrap his legs around Thor’s waist as they kiss.

He parts his skirts and pulls at Thor’s loincloth to find him hard and ready, and with so little time he waits for nothing more and guides the swollen head to his own wet cunt, all too eager to have Thor’s fat cock breach him. Thor slides in with a low sigh, grabbing at Loki’s ass, and Loki wraps his arms around Thor to pull him even closer, nuzzling against his cheek as he comes to rest flush against him.

“I wish it could be this way, always,” Thor says, pressing his forehead to Loki’s, sweet and sentimental and stupid.

“It could be,” Loki says, ever more practical, “if you would but cut Laufey’s throat in his sleep as I have begged you to do.”

“I will not,” Thor says, striving for anger and sounding only hurt, “I cannot, Loki; I swore on Mjolnir I would serve him faithfully and well. I am his thrall for the sake of peace between our Realms and to protect the others from his greed.”

“Faithfully?” Loki says with a bitter laugh, reaching down to tease at where Thor’s cock is buried inside him. “Is this Aesir faithfulness?”

Thor groans and pushes deeper. “I cannot help that I love you,” he says, beautiful eyes wide, “and I gave my word only to submit to him as my master. He has neither interest in nor claim on my heart.”

Loki could argue, has argued in the past, that this is all a waste of air; Thor is breaking his word to Laufey by letting Loki touch him and he knows it, else he would not be at pains to keep it so secret. But no matter what Loki says to him, no matter how many plans he makes and bright visions of a future where they rule as consorts, Thor free and equal at his side, Thor will not take the step Loki most needs of him, will not raise his hammer against Laufey when the King is at his most vulnerable and unsuspecting.

Loki has no doubts about the place he holds in Thor’s heart and knows that Thor hates Laufey, hates his position in Jotunheim and hates, most bitterly at all, that he can do nothing to change it, for he agreed to it, choose to be sold to Laufey-King in order to secure the fragile peace he almost destroyed in his war-mongering and arrogance. Thor is held in Jotunheim not by chains but by his own sense of pride and his determination to endure his time of banishment and humiliation with the dignity befitting a Prince of Asgard.

Thor’s honour is a constant source of frustration to Loki but needling him over it is a waste of this precious time and so he contents himself with an exasperated sigh. “I would have your heart,” he says, to see Thor smile fondly at him, “and give you mine for safe-keeping.”

Pretty words, and ones that do not change their situation, fucking in deserted rooms and risking dishonour and death should they be caught, but they please Thor no end and since Loki has little else to give him he offers them unreservedly, pouring love and affection and desire into Thor’s ear as Thor gives him what he can, namely his powerful body, thick cock and desperate repetition of Loki’s name as he rolls his hips and begins to move in him.

They haven’t time for anything but a quick, hard fuck and while Loki has no complaints at how Thor surges into him, pulling back and shoving forward, doing what he can to kiss Loki with love and sweetness as his hips slam against Loki’s, as he fucks into him with as much speed as he can and little finesse, he does wish they could have more, could have the long, slow coupling he thinks about, that he could take the time to take Thor to pieces, have his golden Prince bouncing on his cock or writhing on his back.

He tells all this to Thor, who moans in agreement, letting go of his grip on Loki’s ass to grope blindly for his cock amidst their bunched clothing, jerking it in the same swift, savage rhythm as their fucking, mouthing at Loki’s neck as Loki keeps talking, keeps telling him everything they will do, one day, how he will let Thor have him in his mouth and cunt and ass, one after the other, and once Thor is spent will lick him back to hardness, will slide his tongue between Thor’s lips and along his shaft and over his balls and into the crease between his buttocks, how good he’ll be to Thor, how he’ll give him anything he wants, once he is King, make him a war-leader, deck him out in silver and gold and not a collar and painted chains, fuck him until he cannot stand, until he begs Loki to come and then let Thor do the same to him.

Loki talks and talks as his orgasm builds, as Thor whimpers and grunts and jerks inside him and he means it, he does, for he loves Thor, he does, he does, and he knows Thor is close, he can tell, and he urges him on, begging him to come inside him, to fill him and claim him, Thor, beloved, come for me, Thor, _Thor_ –

\- the heavy doors screech as they are forced open and Thor and Loki freeze as Laufey storms into the room, face twisted in fury.

“ _You_ ,” Laufey snarls, the temperature dropping sharply as he calls a whirlwind of ice to his clenched fist, forming an enormous ice-blade, “you treacherous, lying cur -”

Thor pulls out with a speed that has Loki yelping and drags Loki off the throne as Laufey swings his arm above his head and brings it down, the blade shattering into huge chunks of ice as it slams against the throne and Thor and Loki scramble out of the way. Loki is not actually sure who Laufey is speaking to as he roars his fury at this outrage, but he is striking out at both of them and Thor pulls him behind him and raises Mjolnir to meet the attack.

“Laufey, stop!” Thor bellows as shards of ice rain down on them, as again and again Laufey brings his blade to bear and Thor smashes it to pieces with his hammer, Loki lashing out with bursts of mage-fire, the cold green light blinding Laufey and keeping him off balance.

“I should have expected nothing better from the son of old One-Eye,” Laufey snarls as he stumbles back, temporarily halted. “But you – I should have drowned you at birth,” he shouts at Loki, a great spear growing in his hands. “How dare you take what it is mine!”

“Thor is _mine_ ,” Loki screams back, hurling dozens of tiny ice daggers at his father, who knocks them aside with ease. “I will have him _and_ your throne!”

“Never,” Laufey roars and Loki can hear the muffled shouts outside, the sounds of the warriors gathering to come to their King’s aid. It is too soon, too unplanned; his own allies are not in place to protect. It is only he and Thor against the giant who brought even Odin Allfather to his knees and Thor is hesitating, fighting defensively, hampered by his sense that he is in the wrong. It will not do and Loki’s mind races: how to survive this, how to turn this into the opportunity he has been waiting for.

Loki darts out from behind Thor, who realises too late what Loki is doing. “No!” Thor shouts but Loki grits his teeth and races forward, calling up two sickle-shaped blades and swinging both in a horizontal arc at Laufey’s stomach. Laufey blocks him easily with his spear and Loki whirls around him and leaps high, aiming for the face and throat; again, Laufey blocks and sends the tip of the spear slashing towards Loki as he lands and nimbly dances away. Loki does not have Laufey’s reach or power but he has speed and agility, and he manages to open a dozen shallow wounds on Laufey’s back and arms.

All too soon though Laufey manages to land a blow with the spear’s shaft to Loki’s head and he pitches forward. The spear point whips out towards him but Loki throws himself into a skid and slides between Laufey’s legs, getting into two deep slashes to Laufey’s tendons as he crashes to the floor. It’s not enough to bring him down but it slows him and, more importantly, enrages him, and he drops the spear as he turns on his heels, blood splashing across the floor, so he can reach down and grab the prone Loki by the throat.

Laufey hefts him high with one hand wrapped around his throat and Loki kicks frantically as Laufey tightens his grip. “Worthless runt,” Laufey sneers as Loki chokes, dark spots blurring in his vision. “Did you really think _you_ could kill _me_?”

“Loki!” Thor screams but the sound is muffled by the blood roaring in Loki’s ears and he is afraid, suddenly so afraid that he has miscalculated, that this is how he will die, dangling like a rag doll in his father’s hands –

There is a terrible crash and boom and blinding light fills Loki’s vision. His body thrashes as ferocious heat and pain rips through him, electricity dancing over his skin and through his bones, too sharp and sudden for him to even scream. The pressure on his throat eases and then vanishes and he drops to the ground in a dazed heap, too stunned to try and defend himself. Through the ringing in his ears he can make out the sounds of a great struggle, of the clash of weapons and he smell the metallic tang of blood and the sickening stench of scorched flesh. Thor is at last fighting Laufey, but all he can do is gasp for breath and wait for his vision to clear.

Then, there is the wet, crunching sound of a blunt object meeting an unprotected face and someone falls, thudding the ground, making a horrific gurgling sound as blood fills their mouth and their breath rattles to a halt.

“Thor?” Loki calls, still half-blind, rising to his knees and struggling forward. “Thor! THOR!”

“I am here,” says the familiar voice and Loki allows himself a sob as warm arms wrap around him and pull him close. “Loki, I am so sorry. Are you hurt?”

Thor smells of ozone and blood, but he seems mostly unhurt as Loki runs his hands over him. He can just about make out Thor’s concerned face and clumsily manages a kiss before Thor helps him to his feet.

“I cannot see properly,” Loki says, peering at the blurry room; are those shadows his father’s warriors in the doorway or just the hangings on the wall? “Thor, what happened?”

“I called down the lightning,” Thor says, petting at Loki’s face as if it will help. “I am sorry, but I did not know what else to do – you were dying, you were -”

“No, no, it is fine,” Loki says, for his sight does seem to be improving a little moment by moment, and any real damage can surely be repaired by the healers. “My father?”

“Dead,” Thor says solemnly, even regretfully, and Loki represses his urge to cheer. His gamble has paid off indeed.

“Thank you for protecting me,” Loki says, letting his abused throat add a breathy rasp to his words. “My beloved. I owe you my life.”

Thor kisses him, surprisingly gentle for a warrior who has just slain Jotunheim’s King. Loki leans into it, soft and grateful, until he hears the first cry of dismay from the doorway.

“The King is dead!” someone shouts from the newly assembled crowd; it sounds like Helblindi but Loki still cannot see that far. Thor tenses and raises the gory hammer so it stands between them and the jötnar spilling into the room.

“The King is dead,” Loki repeats, pitching his voice to carry over the murmuring crowd. He pulls free of Thor’s grasp and walks, head high, to the throne and settles himself on it, crafting a great spear and jagged crown for himself. “I am your new King.”

Thor takes his place at Loki’s side, Mjolnir an open threat in his hands. “Long live the King,” Thor growls, blood-stained and ferocious.

There is silence for a few moments and then the same voice as before calls out: “Long live Loki-King!” Loki hopes dearly it is his brother; he will be most sorry if he has to lose his entire family this day. But whoever it is they are only the first, for now the cry goes up and the shouts of ‘Loki-King!’ begin to ring through the palace, the Council Members coming forward to kneel before him, some smiling, some not.

“Loki-King and Thor-Consort,” Loki corrects as they begin to swear their allegiance and feels Thor’s hot gaze on his face at the words. Ah, yes, he thinks as Laufey’s body is carried from the room and the real business of his taking control begins; he and Thor were rather rudely interrupted, and so he allows only the briefest of meetings before sending his Council away with promises of a true discussion in the morning.

Alone again, Loki smiles as Thor kneels before him. “My King,” he murmurs, lightly kissing Loki’s feet, his own declaration of allegiance. “My beloved.”

“My Thor,” Loki says, leaning forward to guide Thor’s head upwards. “No-one else shall ever touch you again.”

Thor smiles at him easily, flushed and happy and fired with lust and Loki sits back as his beloved consort settles between his legs, his mouth wrapped around his cock, and lets his own smile grow until he is sure it will split his face, for he has everything he has ever wanted and the promise of so much more to come.


	12. Out-of-character clothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **20\. Out of character clothing**  
>  Chris Hemsworth/Tom Hiddleston; women’s underwear, first time, slight AU in that Chris is single during the filming of Thor (2011)
> 
> This is all because of these [two](http://i.perezhilton.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/sbnzwod.gif) [gifs](http://25.media.tumblr.com/ce30e712db332cb853ec8b4d6874a50c/tumblr_mt7glpDn6V1qzj8m2o2_250.gif) and the wonderful people of tumblr :)

“Where did you get _this_?” Tom asks in a strange tone of voice and Chis turns to see a bright pink g-string dangling from his finger, ‘Thor’ picked out in rhinestones on the tiny triangle of fabric.

“Oh God,” he groans, “no – look mate, they’re not mine, it’s – Liam thought he was being funny, alright, he had them made or something and posted them to me with a note saying ‘from your secret admirer’, but I knew it was him because -”

“So they _are_ yours, then, technically speaking,” Tom points out and Chris gives him a mock-glare.

“Yeah, yeah, have a good laugh; you just wait ‘til you see what my brothers are getting you for Christmas -”

“Have you put them on yet?” Tom interrupts and Chris takes time out from his slight embarrassment to actually look at Tom properly. Tom’s not laughing, in fact, he’s not even smirking. He looks serious and oddly intense and Chris isn’t sure he likes it.

“Get off it, you wanker,” he says with a slightly forced laugh and grabs the stupid panties out of Tom’s hand. “I’d have binned them already, but you got that email about the press and the bins, so I’m hanging on to them until I’m sure they won’t end up in a tabloid somewhere.”

“Oh,” Tom says, still not smiling.

“Anyway,” Chris says, grinning for the both of them, ignoring the tension he can’t put a name to, “I’m starving. Ready to go?”

Tom is uncharacteristically quiet as they head out for dinner with the rest of the cast and crew, but he perks up soon enough and Chris forgets the weirdness of the conversation, too busy laughing at Tom’s dancing and fondness for ridiculous cocktails the barman obviously has no idea how to make. They end up behind the bar, making their own concoctions they call stupid things like ‘Hammer Time’ and ‘Assgard’s Full Moon’  while Jaimie and Natalie and Kat cheer them on, and of course they end up drinking a little more than they should and then rather a lot more then they should.

They pile into a taxi later than everyone else and go home still laughing, Tom’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and then his waist, and then it’s a full body hug, Tom draped all over him and giggling that daft breathy giggle but it’s just another daft drunken night until Tom leans in and whispers into his ear, “are you wearing it now?”

“What?” Chris asks.

“The g-string,” Tom says, and there’s an edge to his smile Chris hasn’t seen before.

“Piss off,” he says, shaking his head and then regretting it as the living room swims.

“Shame,” Tom sighs, and he sounds so sincerely regretful that Chris doesn’t know what to say and ends up just standing there with his mouth open as Tom wanders off to his room, hips swaying in a way that surely has to be the drink.

Chris drinks as much water as he can physically stand before going to bed, but it doesn’t help much and he sits on his bed and tries to think through the fog in his head. He knows Tom is messing with him, he _has_ to be, but he can’t quite ignore the slight flutter in his stomach when he thinks of Tom’s face when he looked from the g-string to Chris.

He’s not quite sure when he digs out the g-string from his drawer, only that he’s now sitting naked on the edge of the bed with the hideous thing in his hands and…he’s thinking about it. He wrestles with himself for a few moments but really, it’s not the worst thing he’s ever done drunk and it’s not like anyone will know.

His first concern is that the damn thing isn’t going to fit, but as he steps into it he realises how stretchy the elastic is and it’s surprisingly easy to slide it up his legs and settle it on his hips. It’s…weird, bluntly, having the elastic string snapping taut between his ass cheeks and it’s very different having the silky fabric stretched over his cock, the fit snug but not uncomfortable, but nothing like his usual boxers or briefs. He shifts around a bit, getting used to the feel, and ok, he can sort of see the appeal, the way the slightest movement has his cock rubbing against the silk, the way the string at the back rubs over his hole, keeping him aware of his ass in a way he never normally is.

He has to look, now he’s gone this far, and he stands in front of his mirror frowning at his reflection. The g-string looks even smaller actually on him, and he will admit the way it barely covers his cock and yet clings to the outline is quite flattering, even if the pink and rhinestones is tacky as hell. He takes a deep breath and turns, looking at himself over his shoulder. It’s still a pleasant surprise to see just how big he is with the extra weight for the part, and he’s proud that his hard work has paid off in the muscle he’s packed on all over. It’s also quite something to see how the pink line of the g-string dips and vanishes between his ass cheeks, an inviting trail from the small of his back down. He pulls his cheeks apart to see better and…well, the hot pink does actually show up against his skin surprisingly well, and when he bends forward he can just about see where the triangle of silk tapers to a point over his balls, leaving them to bulge over the back of the string.

He looks pretty good, he thinks smugly; Tom would be impressed.

And then he realises he’s bent over looking at his own ass in a g-string in the mirror and thinking of his co-star and newest best mate. Fuck.

He can’t get the fucking thing off fast enough and he crumples it into a ball and throws it across the room before crawling into bed, where he resolutely ignores that he’s a little more than half-hard until he falls into an uneasy sleep.

He wakes earlier than he’d like to, given he’s not due on set until the afternoon for once, but after a quick shower he doesn’t feel too hung over, all things considered. He slopes down to the kitchen with nothing more exciting than a fry-up and a coffee on his mind.

Tom is cooking breakfast wearing nothing but his boxers, and he waves cheerfully as he catches sight of Chris stopped dead in the doorway.

“You want some?” he asks, dark hair tousled from sleep, and Chris croaks a yes, suddenly glad he’d bothered to put on proper jogging bottoms and not just pyjamas. Tom’s apparent indifference to clothing is normally another source of amusement to Chris and everyone else in the shared house, but today it’s rubbing Chris’s nerves a little raw.

“Feeling rough, are we?” Tom asks as he serves up a full English breakfast and Chris takes the excuse, mumbling something generic as he tucks in. No-one else is home and he doesn’t know why that makes him nervous when it never would have before. Nothing has happened. Nothing is going to happen. He just got drunk and things got a bit weird in the privacy of his room. No big deal.

Tom natters away about God knows what while Chris eats and nods occasionally. He needs to get a grip, he tells himself firmly, ignoring the way Tom’s flutter to his neck as he talks and the fact that he’s doing that thing again, that thing where he sprawls in his chair, legs apart, and if Chris dropped a fork or something and bent down he’d probably have an excellent view of where Tom’s fly gapes open. This is going from a crush to a full-on obsession faster than Chris would like; it’s one thing to give Tom the eye and consider maybe asking him out for a drink _after_ they’ve finished working together and quite another to be wondering how to bring up the subject of underwear without sounding like a total pervert.

He knows he’s a bit spaced out, but he’s not expecting it when Tom’s hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Are you sure you’re ok?” Tom asks, looking down at him intently, and Chris just looks back at him. Tom studies his face and Chris can actually see the moment his expression changes, his eyes darkening as he licks his lips. “Are you wearing them? Right now?” he asks, voice dropping and Chris shivers a little, thrilled that he’s not the only one with a one track mind at the moment.

“No,” he admits, “but I tried them on last night.”

“Did you like it?” Tom asks, leaning closer, and Chris isn’t sure what this is, what this means, but he nods and Tom gives him a wicked grin. “Can I see?” he asks, hand sliding from its innocently friendly position on Chris’s shoulder to cup Chris’s cheek, thumb rubbing gently over Chris’s beard.

“Tom,” he says, a little helplessly, because – because this isn’t how it goes, this isn’t how he asks out a guy he might be interested in, this is way past that, into a territory he’s totally lost in.

“I know you’ll look gorgeous,” Tom says, and he brushes the lightest of kisses over Chris’s mouth, a gentle encouragement that has Chris’s heart racing.

“OK,” he says and in the end it’s a simple as that to make the decision, to see how this will unfold between them.

Tom lolls on his bed as if he belongs there, comfortable and relaxed, while Chris hunts for the wadded-up g-string. He finds it at last and stands there with it, not quite sure what Tom wants. But Tom sits up, cross-legged, and puts his hand over his eyes like some kind of boy scout or something and Chris can’t help laughing.

“I won’t peek,” Tom says, almost giggling, “until you say I can.”

“This is nuts,” Chris says, shucking his bottoms and wriggling back into the pink panties. “Tom, this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Really?” Tom says. “Well, let me tell you, compared to the shenanigans at Eton and Cambridge, a pink g-string is nothing to get excited about.”

“Did you actually just say _shenanigans_?” Chris says, adjusting the pink silk so his cock is fully covered. He has a quick glance in the mirror, just to reassure himself and then, before he can change his mind or Tom can say something else daft, he tells him, “You can look now.”

Tom lowers his eyes and looks at Chris, who can’t help crossing his arms but forces himself to stand up straight, legs apart. Tom’s gaze trails over him, head to foot and then back up again. Chris should be freaking out at the open lust on his face but he finds that he likes it, that it helps him relax, to lower his arms and put his hands on his hips.

“Bend over for me,” Tom says, voice rough, and Chris doesn’t even think about it, just turns around and does so, reaching down to touch his toes, feeling the sting rubbing along his ass as he moves, feeling it dig into his balls. He holds the position while Tom makes a soft ‘oh’ sound and then straightens back up and turns to face him, aware that his cock is beginning to swell and push against the pink silk.

“Well?” he says challengingly and Tom unfolds himself from the bed to stand in front of him, all that easy humour replaced with naked want.

“You’re stunning, darling,” Tom tells him softly and then he kisses him, properly this time, hot and wet and filthy, and Chris throws himself into it, pulling Tom in and greedily running his hand over his body, grabbing at that pert ass and grinding his hips into him. He can feel Tom’s cock pushing against his own and he lets go of Tom’s ass to run his hands along the waistband of his boxers.

“Off?” he asks when Tom finally stops kissing him and Tom grins at him.

“Keep yours on though, love?” he says and it’s a question, not a demand, but Chris wouldn’t dream of turning Tom down now.

“You _are_ a pervert, aren’t you?” Chris says in mock-horror and Tom gives him one of Loki’s evil smirks, which Chris is coming to suspect are not so out of character for Tom as he had assumed.

“You have no idea,” Tom drawls in a rather good imitation of Jeremy Irons as Scar and it’s just such a Tom thing to do, to put that Disney voice on while he’s busy kicking his boxers off that Chris starts laughing again and can’t seem to stop.

Tom’s cock, now free, is just as impressive as Chris had been hoping, and he gives it a squeeze, just lightly, enjoying the weight and heat of it in his palm as Tom inhales raggedly.

“It’s not very polite to laugh at a man when he’s naked,” Tom tells him, lips quirking, and tugs him down onto the bed, swallowing Chris’s laughter as he rolls on top of him and kisses him thoroughly, leaving Chris arching up into him, his swollen cock now severely hampered by the damn g-string. Tom reaches down and helps him adjust, holding the fabric of the g-string out so Chris can lift his cock out and hold it up, and then the bastard lets go and the fabric snaps against Chris, pinning his cock flat to his belly and leaving him tingling.

“Dick,” he hisses and Tom laughs and kisses the end of Chris’s nose.

“If you say so,” he says and then he’s gone, working his way down Chris’s body with soft kisses until he reaches where the head of Chris’s cock is poking up from the g-string. This he bypasses, the _wanker_ , leaving it dripping wet and forming a sticky pool on Chris’s navel, in order to mouth at the trapped shaft through the silk, his saliva soaking through the thin fabric as Chris pushes against his tongue.

“Ngh,” Chris manages intelligently and Tom shifts lower still, lapping a path down the shaft to his balls, running the flat of his tongue over them and then gently suckling on the left and then the right. He nips playfully at where the string is pulled taut against them and if he snaps the elastic here Chris is going to fucking murder him, but he contents himself with inserting his tongue between the panties and Chris’s balls and licking enthusiastically.

Chris shouldn’t be surprised when Tom spreads his legs further, getting Chris to pull his knees up and put his feet flat on the bed, gesturing for a pillow to lift his hips up, but he is, a little, more by Tom’s genuine fascination with where the g-string is resting against his hole than the fact that Tom knows exactly what he wants and is intent on getting it. This is usually the part where people expect him to play the alpha male card and fuck them through the mattress; that’s not a bad thing of course, and a good time is always had by all, but it’s been a while since someone had the balls to do the same to him and he’s very pleased it’s going to be Tom.

“Where do you keep your stuff?” Tom asks, teasing at the g-string, rubbing his thumb over the elastic and Chris’s hole at the same time, which has Chris twitching in anticipation.

“Lube’s in the bedside drawer,” Chris says, and Tom reaches over to yank it open and rummage through until he finds the travel sachets and handful of condoms Chris carries with him just in case.

Tom tears open a sachet and covers his fingers with lube before bending down and kissing Chris’s ass, just flicking his tongue over his hole. “You really are gorgeous,” he tells Chris as Chris bucks, and then he’s pulling the string to the side and easing the first finger in. Chris takes a deep breath; it’s been a while and Tom has long fingers, but Tom is generous with the lube and settles himself between Chris’s thighs so he can continue to lick at Chris’s cock through the panties as he works him open.

Chris moans and Tom scoots in closer, flicking his tongue up the crown as he leans up and over Chris’s body, adding a second slick finger before dipping his tongue into Chris’s slit, balancing the ache and stretch with the flashes of pleasure as Chris’s cock rubs over his wet lips. He’s good at this, Chris think vaguely, hands fisting at his bedsheets, body sparking with sensation as Tom pulls his hips higher and onto to his lap, fingering him slowly as he curls in on himself so he can reach Chris’s cock with his mouth. Chris’s world has reduced to this: Tom’s fingers gentle and insistent inside him, stroking him and spreading him open, his mouth hot and wet against his cock, the silk now soaked through and a source of maddeningly slippery friction, Chris panting and moaning and still so aware of where the g-string bites into his flesh, tight around his hips and taut against his ass.

“Chris,” Tom says what could be minutes or hours later, Chris has no fucking idea anymore, “Chris, can I – can I fuck you now, love?” He sounds as wrecked as Chris feels and Chris manages to open his eyes to see Tom looking up at him, almost shaking with excitement, his fingers still working slowly deep inside.

“Yes,” Chris says in a rush, “fuck, mate, come on, come on,” and Tom slides his fingers free and fumbles with the condom packet and yet another lube sachet while Chris tries to remember how to breathe. Tom kneels between his legs and lines his cock up with Chris’s stretched hole. The head bumps against the tight pucker and then he starts to push. Chris forces himself to relax, to breathe steadily, and concentrates on the amazing feeling of Tom’s fat cock spreading him even wider, filling him up inch by inch, Tom making desperate little whimpering noises as he sinks in until his balls rest against Chris’s ass.

He stays there until Chris gives him the nod and then he makes a choking noise and pulls back until only the tip of his cock is still inside Chris before slamming back in as Chris shouts. “Fuck, Tom,” he says, ecstatic, and Tom grins and does it again and again until Chris’s head falls back and he lifts his legs up and off the bed, slinging one over Tom’s shoulder to give him more room.

“Hey, Chris,” Tom pants once they find a rhythm that works, Tom fucking him with long, hard strokes, holding nothing back, “watch this,” and then the flexible bastard somehow bends himself nearly in half and gets the head of Chris’s cock into his mouth so he can suck him even as he fucks into him. Chris fairly roars at that and fucking hell, if this is what yoga teaches you he _will_ stick with it, because this is fucking _awesome_ , fireworks going off behind his eyes at the slide of Tom’s cock in his ass and his cock in Tom’s mouth.

He hears a ripping noise and he’s pretty sure it’s the silk bit of the g-string tearing from the strain but he doesn’t care because he’s so close, his balls drawn up tight, cock throbbing in Tom’s mouth. “I’m gonna – Tom, I’m gonna come,” he says, and Tom hums and that’s it, how the fuck is he supposed to cope with that, he’s coming, lightning flashing up his spine, whole body clenching tight as he shakes apart. Tom swallows, he can feel his throat working even though the storm of orgasm, and that has him jerking again, just a bit more, before he slumps back, boneless with pleasure.

Tom straightens out from his impossible position and Chris finds the energy to sit himself up and catch his face in his hands, kissing him and not caring that he can taste his come on Tom’s tongue.

“Nearly there?” he asks, and Tom grunts, pupils blown, unable to stop rolling his hips even now. “Then fuck me properly,” he says, flopping back down, legs spread wide, and Tom leans over him, braces himself with his arms either side of Chris’s head and does just that, teeth bared and eyes wild as he drives himself into Chris’s body, putting his entire body into it, while Chris lies back and takes it, watches Tom’s face as his orgasm creeps up on him, mouth opening and eyes closing, face screwed up as he says “Chris, _Chris_ , I’m – Chris -” and then he’s coming, cock twitching inside Chris and Chris wraps his arms around Tom as his arms give out and he collapses on top of him.

They’re sweaty and sticky and the fucking g-string is _really_ chafing but Tom is warm and heavy against him and murmuring what are either curses or pet names under his breath. It’s easy and sweet and Chris would quite happily stay here all day, but of course it’s not that simple.

Tom sighs and lifts himself up, gently easing out of Chris with one hand on his cock and the condom, and then pads off to the bathroom to clean himself up. He comes back with a wet cloth for Chris and diligently cleans up the lube and the remains of pre-come smeared on Chris’s stomach and then finally Chris can roll the panties down and get them off. They’re more or less completely ruined, with a tear across the front and most of the rhinestones gone but Tom puts them carefully on the bedside table before lying back down by Chris.

“So, you have a thing for panties, then?” Chris jokes, looking for the familiar banter in these unfamiliar circumstances. He’s never done anything quite like this before and he’s unsure what it means. Tom’s his mate and he’s hopeful they could be more; he doesn’t want to think he’s just cocked it all up.

Tom rolls his eyes and kisses him on the mouth. “No, Chris, I’ve got a thing for you,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious statement he’s ever made. “But we should probably keep it quiet until after filming. Unless -” and he suddenly looks vulnerable, in a way he hasn’t since Chris first met him and he’d tried too hard to be funny, so keen to be friends that Chris had fallen for him a little even then.

“You’re right,” Chris agrees, taking him by the hand and locking their fingers together. “We’ll tell people after the shooting. Keep things professional for now. At least in public.”

Tom smiles at him, happy and relieved, and cuddles in close and Chris holds him tight and wonders how to get Liam to tell him where to get more of the panties without totally incriminating himself.


	13. Spanking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **28\. Spanking**  
>  Thor/Loki, human AU, bodyguard Thor/goth rocker Loki, slippers  
> Based on [marty-mc's gorgeous fanart](http://marty-mc.tumblr.com/post/61768533181/lovelyevilwolfess-marty-mc-here-it-is-loki) and [this anon prompt](http://marty-mc.tumblr.com/post/61678352771/yes-omg-is-there-a-fic-about-this-give-it-to-me) (ooh and [this fanart](http://thorsicle.tumblr.com/post/61819092792/because-loki-needs-to-be-in-this-outfit-as-much-as) too) and the sudden fascination tumblr has with Loki in slippers :)

Thor slams open the door to the hotel suite and doesn’t even need to say anything for the room to instantly clear, the band and assorted staff slipping past him in a mad rush, heading for the relative safety of the lobby or their own rooms. Thor bangs the door shut behind him once they’re gone and stalks through the lounge to the bigger of the two bedrooms, dimly aware that this is the angriest he has ever been.

Loki is sitting lazily on the edge of his bed, still in his stage make-up, cheekbones prominent and eyes even greener with the thick eyeliner. He’s wearing his finale outfit, tight leather trousers and a matching bolero, with dozens of bronze chains wrapped around his neck and stretched across his chest, though he’s kicked off the heavy spiked boots in favour of a pair of incongruous black hotel slippers.

“What?” he asks as Thor closes with him, shaking with rage.

“You just sucked on a dildo on stage and told ten thousand people that my cock was bigger!” Thor roars, still burning with embarrassment. He is never, ever going to live that down; he hopes to god that no-one adds his name to the concert footage that is almost certainly already on YouTube.

“Firstly, it’s a compliment,” Loki says as he shrugs and runs a hand over his hair, stiff with product and looking more like a pelt than the soft curls he actually has. “It was a pretty big dildo. Secondly, it’s called the I Do What I Want tour so, you know, there’s that. And thirdly, it was at least twenty thousand people tonight. The stadium was sold out months ago.”

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” Thor bellows, incensed by Loki’s indifference. “I’ve done nothing but protect you and this is how you treat me? Like I’m some kind of _hooker_?”

“You’re not a hooker,” Loki says, affecting boredom, legs crossed and one foot bouncing. “If you were a hooker I’d be getting my money’s worth out of you, instead of having to listen to you whinge all the time. Oh, Loki,” he whines in a falsetto voice that sounds nothing like Thor, “what is wrong with you? Why aren’t you an ignorant dumbfuck like me?”

Thor clenches his fists and Loki laughs. “Oh, fuck off, you pathetic fool,” he says, flapping a hand idly at Thor. “Go and glare at someone who gives a fuck what you think. You’re boring me.”

Thor had spent the first month of this job convinced Loki was off his head on every drug known to man; when he realised he was clean, he had spent six weeks genuinely concerned that Loki had had a psychotic breakdown and management were covering it up for the sake of the tour. But now he had finally come to see the truth: Loki was just a selfish, spoilt little shit who thought that daddy issues and narcissism were good enough reasons to treat the world like his own personal amusement park.

Thor’s been around long enough to see the dark underbelly of the business, signed enough non-disclosure agreements to know there’s more to his job than just keeping the talent safe from over-enthusiastic fans, but he has never been treated this badly by a star before. It’s nothing new for a client to make a pass or get a bit handsy; he works with people who are used to getting what they want, when they want it, and he knows without bragging that he looks good and keeps himself in shape. Some bodyguards see it as a perk, but he prefers to keep things simple, keep the relationship professional, and he doesn’t mind weathering a few tantrums if it keeps his reputation intact.

But Loki – Loki’s something else. He’s put up with the whining, the begging, the screaming fits; he’s said no, politely but firmly, every time Loki’s tried to get him into bed; he’s looked away every time Loki’s walked around the hotel suite half-dressed and then naked and then _naked and palming his erection_. He kept his cool when Loki started fucking groupies in front of him, in the lounge, in Thor’s bed, in the bathroom _when Thor was in the shower_.

Loki is gorgeous, there’s no getting around it, but he’s the biggest arsehole Thor’s ever met. If it wasn’t for the fact this is the best paying gig he’s ever had – and that should have been a clue, right there, triple rates for just one tour - he would have walked a month ago. But he needs the money and he needs a good reference and they’re on the last leg, just one more week doing the UK stadiums and it’ll be over. So Thor had gritted his teeth and got on with it, fantasising about the all-inclusive holiday he’s booking the minute he gets his paycheck, and barricading the door to his room with a chest of drawers so Loki can’t get in when he’s sleeping.

But then Loki had mimed giving a blowjob with a dildo live on stage while actually _pointing at him and laughing_ and that is _it_.

“I quit,” he says, the words delicious on his tongue. Screw the money, screw the job, screw Loki. “I’m done.”

“You can’t quit,” Loki snaps, indifference morphing into his more familiar anger. “You’re mine. I say you can’t.”

“You don’t _own_ me,” Thor growls, “and I’ve had enough. Find yourself another bodyguard. I’m out of here.”

“No!” Loki screams, clearly about to launch into a full-scale diva meltdown and Thor is so fucking done with all this. He turns and starts to walk away and that’s when the slipper hits the back of his head.

Thor turns slowly and sees that Loki has the other one in hand, ready to throw.

“Did you just throw a slipper at me?” he says incredulously.

“You can’t quit, you fucking coward!” Loki yells at him, brandishing the stupid slipper. “You – you fucking pussy, you fucking -” He’s spluttering with anger, his usual flow of insults tangled up in his rage and he raises his arm and hurls the second slipper at Thor’s face.

Thor’s patience snaps. “You little _shit_ ,” he snarls, grabbing the slipper out of the air and advancing on Loki. Loki doesn’t have the sense to run and instead continues shouting abuse at Thor, even as Thor grabs him by the elbow and hauls him to his feet.

“If you act like a spoilt brat, I’m going to treat you like one,” Thor tells him coldly and yanks at his trousers; they’re so low on his hips it’s a miracle they’ve stayed up this long and it’s all too easy to expose his bare ass.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Loki hisses but Thor sits down and drags him onto his lap with ease, balancing Loki’s thrashing limbs over his knees and holding him down with one hand between his shoulder blades.

“You should have had this done to you years ago,” Thor says and he smacks him hard with the slipper. Loki hisses in anger, the chains of his jacket jangling as he pitches forward, but Thor’s tall enough that his feet are dangling and he’s trapped, unable to get the leverage to struggle out of Thor’s grasp. Thor smacks him again, the slipper whipping through the air and making a pleasing crack as it connects with Loki’s rump, setting off another clashing of chains.

Loki howls like he’s dying, the bloody faker, so Thor smacks him harder, puts some power into it, leaving a red sole-shaped imprint on Loki’s cheeks as he continues to smack him. But Loki’s dramatic wails are rising and falling with no relevance to Thor’s actual strikes and it’s making him crazy - this isn’t another _performance_ – and so he drops the slipper and starts spanking Loki properly, heavy, wide-palmed slaps that leave his hand stinging, never mind Loki’s ass.

The wails break off as Loki gasps and then _squeaks_ , a funny, high-pitched noise that still isn’t the yelps of pain Thor is after, but it seems to be a genuine sound at least. Thor keeps spanking, covering Loki’s cheeks and the top of his thighs with angry hand-prints, Loki’s serpent tattoo writhing as he wriggles in Thor’s lap, rocking back and forth with the power of Thor’s blows.

It has to hurt and Loki is sobbing now, taking in deep, shuddering breaths as Thor raises his hand and then releasing them in low sobs when the hit lands, head low, hips tilted forward. It still sounds wrong though, and Thor slows as he tries to work out what else he can do, how he can punish the little shit properly, and as he does so, Loki lifts his hips higher, back arching and then – and then his hard, wet cock grinds against Thor’s leg and Thor realises what is actually happening here.

Loki’s not sobbing; he’s moaning. He’s getting off on this.

Thor should stop, should be even more furious, because he’s played right into Loki’s hands, fallen into his trap at last, but Loki is just lying there on his lap, not making any effort to get away, the red of his ass a beautiful contrast to his pale legs and back and – fuck it, he’s come this far and if he’s being honest, he’s enjoying it too. Thor spreads his legs further and shifts Loki’s weight, manhandling Loki’s suddenly pliant body until he can feel Loki’s cock pressed against his thigh, giving him something to rub against.

Loki doesn’t say a word until Thor lifts his hand and smacks him again, and then he wails properly, the sound ripping from his lungs as he rocks with the impact, his cock dragging over Thor’s trousers, leaving a sticky trail over the black fabric. That’s more like it and so Thor does it again and Loki shrieks louder and again and again –

There’s a sudden banging on the door and Thor freezes, hand splayed on Loki’s bright red ass.

“Loki, uh, are you ok?” asks a nervous voice from outside.

“Fuck. OFF!” Loki screeches in immediate response. In the following silence they can just about hear two sets of feet rapidly retreating, and then the muffled thud of a door slamming at the other end of the hall.

Thor and Loki look at each other, Loki wide-eyed and panting, Thor suddenly very aware that he has his client bent over his lap, bare-assed and hard, face streaked with tears.

“Don’t stop,” Loki says breathlessly, and Thor really, really shouldn’t listen but he does, he keeps spanking him, Loki’s wails and the chiming of his chains ringing through the room, rising in pitch until he’s a writhing, sobbing mess on Thor’s lap until Thor can’t take it anymore; he hefts Loki up with one arm wrapped around his chest, metal biting into the flesh of his forearm, and gets his other hand on Loki’s cock and jerks him off brutally hard until Loki screams and comes all over himself.

Thor puts Loki back on his feet, suddenly unsure, but Loki is having none of it and drops to his knees, tearing open Thor’s stained trousers and swallowing Thor’s cock like he’s starving for it and fuck, he’d had a pretty good go with the dildo on-stage but it’s nothing compared to the way he deep-throats Thor, taking him in with the bare minimum of effort, fondling Thor’s balls as his throat works around Thor’s head and shaft.

Thor would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it before, imagined stopping up that filthy mouth with his cock, having the bastard on his knees and choking, but this is better, because Loki’s fucking _loving_ it, grunting to himself as he works Thor’s cock, shameless and hungry, red lips stretched wide, eyes still shining with tears and Thor can’t help it, can barely manage a warning before he’s coming, Loki swallowing his come with an expression of utter bliss on his face.

He keeps sucking at Thor until every last drop is gone and only then releases him, pouting slightly, and he stays on his knees, seemingly quite happy, as Thor slumps back and gasps for breath.

He ought to say something but he’s damned if he knows what it is, and so he stands and awkwardly tucks himself away, Loki still at his feet. Thor looks to the door and wonders if he should walk out now or have one last night in the suite before getting his stuff and going. Loki follows his gaze and stands, too close, trousers tangled round his ankles, flushed and beautiful even as he scowls.

“You’re leaving?” Loki says, outraged, and Thor sighs.

“I quit,” he reminds him. “I can’t work with you like this.”

“I’ll pay you double – triple – whatever you want -” Loki says desperately but Thor shakes his head. Loki bites his lip. He looks gorgeous, half-naked and come-splattered, eyeliner smudged and hair wild, and Thor would like nothing more than to throw him in the shower and start all over again. But he means it: he can’t work with Loki anymore. Not after this.

“We should get married then,” Loki blurts out and Thor stares at him.

“What?”

“Yes,” Loki says, eyes bright, gesticulating furiously as he dreams up another crazy scheme; “We’ll register the civil partnership here on Monday, and then we’ll fly to Vegas next weekend and have a blow-out wedding, the whole band, invite _everyone_ \- the album sales will go through the roof -”

“Loki -”

“No, it’s fine, it’ll be great – I’ll give you a no-fault divorce in six months and you can have half of everything, no pre-nup – I’m worth a hundred million at least. You’d be set for life.”

“You’re insane.” Thor was aiming for horrified, but it comes out almost fond, and Loki beams at him, the broad smile totally out of place on him.

“I’ll take you out – we’ll go on holiday – you like surfing, right? I hate the beach but, but, we can go -”

Thor sits there, completely bemused, as Loki rambles, pushing his hair out of his face as he talks, looking sweeter and happier than Thor thought was possible for such a vicious little monster… and then it hits him.

“You want to _date_ me? That’s what all of this was – the nudity, the tantrums, the shittiness – all because you didn’t have the balls to ask me out?”  

“I don’t ‘date’,” Loki sneers, air quotes and all, but he looks shifty as hell and Thor’s got him now.

“You want to be my boyfriend,” he laughs, and Loki looks about ready to punch him. “You _like_ me. You want flowers and candlelit dinners and, and, holding hands at the cinema, and -”

“Fuck off, you prick,” Loki snarls and there he is, there’s the arsehole Thor knows and, god help him, maybe even loves and Thor grabs him as he strikes out at Thor’s face, hands curled into claws, and wrestles him down onto the bed, careless of his sore arse, slinging his leg over his hips and holding him in place so he can kiss him messily.

“I won’t marry you,” Thor tells him when they part, Loki spiky and spitting under him, “but I will stick around and see where this goes. But if you start treating me like shit again, I’m gone. Deal?”

Loki bucks and curses a bit more, so Thor kisses him again until he subsides, until he’s soft and supple in Thor’s arms, something almost like affection in his eyes when he looks up at Thor.

“I suppose it’ll do,” Loki says with that arrogant edge, and he’s still the biggest arsehole Thor’s ever met, but he wraps his arms around Thor’s shoulders and curls into him as Thor carries him to the shower and well, Thor never wanted a quiet life anyway.


	14. Creative sexual positions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **7\. Creative sexual positions**  
>  Chris Hemsworth/Tom Hiddleston; Victorian AU; 19 year old Tom/31 year old Chris; self-fellation  
> Based on this picture:  
>   
> For [Marty](http://marty-mc.tumblr.com), who helpfully pointed out that the gentleman in the picture reminded her of [curly haired twink! Tom](http://www-tc.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/missaustenregrets/images/char_lg_plumptree.jpg). 
> 
> (Incidently, if you want to see actual 20 year old Tom in Victorian dress, he’s a background character in the dinner party scene of the [BBC’s Nicholas Nickelby](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=38FhuxiyRCs&feature=youtu.be&t=1h33m8s).

“Have you done this sort of thing before?” Chris asks and the boy pauses in the middle of his undressing.

“Photography is all the rage these days, sir,” he replies casually. “I have sat for many portraits. I am told I make an excellent subject.”

That was not quite what Chris was asking and he suspects the boy knows it as he resumes unbuttoning his white shirt and shimmies out of his tailored trousers without hesitation. Chris imagines he has been asked to pose many, many times: the boy is stunningly beautiful in a classical way, his sharp angles and fine bones softened by his halo of golden curls and his expressive eyes. He was not lying when he said he wanted to capture the boy’s image for posterity, for he stirs the artist in him, but that is not all he stirs, and that is what he was enquiring after, in as subtle a way as he can manage.

He didn’t ask why a young man so obviously shy of one-and-twenty was alone on the train in the middle of the day during college term time. He hasn’t asked him where he is from or what he is doing in London, nor why someone with such well-cut clothes and a genteel accent would accept an invitation from a stranger to visit their studio right then and there. He has not yet even ascertained the boy’s name.

He is walking a dangerous path and he knows it. But the boy stands naked before his camera, pale and lean and breathtaking, and Chris cannot turn back now.

“What are you called?” he asks as he sets up the camera, adjusting the lens until his subject comes sharply into focus, pretending he is not drinking in the boy’s effortless elegance as he stands with one hand on his cocked hip.

“Thomas, sir, but most call me Tom.” The boy does not offer a surname and Chris is growing more and more certain this is not the first time he has accepted a thinly-veiled invitation from an older man.

“You may call me Chris,” he offers, uneasy with the conflict between the deference in the boy’s address and the confidence in his smile. Could this be a trap? Will two burly policemen be bursting through his door in mere moments, to drag him away to shame and ruin?

“Thank you, Chris, sir,” Tom says and a shiver runs down Chris’s spine. “How would you like me?”

“On the sofa,” Chris says, seeking refuge behind the camera tripod and draping the black hood over his head. He is only going to photograph the boy, he tells himself sternly. Only pictures. Surely there can be no harm in it, not when Tom is as comfortable as he is.

And Tom is _very_ comfortable, sprawling languorously on the sofa, one left bent at the knee and the other outstretched, his arm bent and hand tucked behind his head, the other trailing so his fingers almost touch the floor, body tilted towards the camera even as he looks dreamily into the middle distance, lips slightly parted. A perfect pose.

“How often have you done this?” Chris asks once the picture is taken, realising how foolish his first question was. Tom shifts position without being prompted, turning on his side to expose the long line of his spine and legs and, of course, his taut buttocks.

“Often enough,” he replies, sounding amused, as Chris takes another picture. “But not so often as you might be thinking. I am…choosy in my choice of photographer. After all, there is such intimacy between an artist and his subject. There must be perfect trust on both sides.”

“I see,” Chris says, relaxing a little. While he has an impressive collection of, ah, intimate and artistic photographs safely stowed in a locked drawer, this is the first time he has attempted to create any of his own. His usual subjects are staid family groups and solemn portraits, and his work in this studio has always been as part of a respectable and lucrative career. But it does not please the artist in him, whereas Tom’s luminous beauty had him itching to put him before the camera even before his baser urges asserted themselves. The combination was powerful enough for him to risk everything by inviting Tom here.

Tom arranges himself in a dozen different positions with minimal prompting, until at last he sits upright, facing the camera, an expression of desperate longing on his face. Chris captures the image, having to consciously still the fine tremor in his hands, trying to unobtrusively spread his legs a little wider to ease the pressure on his rising erection. He knows already that these will be the best images he has ever taken, and that he could likely make a great deal of money selling prints of them to certain gentlemen of his acquaintance, but he will not do so. He will keep them close and share them with no-one.

Chris pushes the hood aside and stands, keeping his body behind the tripod as he does so, in an attempt to preserve a little of his modesty. Tom does not share this impulse, for he remains as he is, legs spread wide, and Chris makes a concerted effort not to look at where his soft cock nestles in a thatch of blonde curls.

“Thank you,” he says, horribly aware of the added timbre in his voice. “I truly appreciate you sitting for me.”

Tom cocks his head to the side and gives him a sly grin quite unlike the pretty pouting he has displayed for the photographs. “Is that all you want of me, Chris, sir?” he asks, trailing his hand over his chest and down to the juncture of his thighs. “I know a few tricks a gentleman such as yourself might enjoy.” He slowly slides his hand over his cock, just palming it, teasing at his own flesh as it thickens and begins to rise.

Tom laughs, a breathy little giggle, as Chris opens and closes his mouth, unable to frame a response. His romantic history is a wreckage of furtive fumbling with friends who could not meet his eyes after and guilty trysts with streetwalkers; he has never had so shameless a prospective partner before and for all he is a decade older at least, feels a bumbling schoolboy next to Tom’s confidence.

There seems little point in trying to conceal his own interest, not with Tom’s cock flushed and swollen under his sure strokes, Tom still grinning and looking directly at him, and so he steps away from the camera and approaches the boy. Tom must crane his head back to keep his eyes on his face, but his hand never stills, and this close Chris can see a rosy blush has spread across his neck and cheeks, a pale pink compared to the deep rose of his wet cockhead and the tip of his tongue as it flickers across his lips.

“What other tricks do you know?” Chris asks gruffly and Tom flashes him a bright smile.

“You’ll like this one,” he says as he lies on his back, head resting on the midpoint of the sofa. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly; then he lifts his legs up and arches them over his head, tucking his head into his chest and he just keeps bending until he has folded himself cleanly in half, his legs perfectly flat and horizontal, feet braced on a cushion and arms flat at his side. Chris watches, slack-jawed in sheer amazement, as he opens his mouth and licks at his own cock, frowns, shifts a little further and then actually takes the head into his mouth and sucks lightly before letting it slip back out, to bob just above his rosy lips.

“Would you like to take a picture, sir?” Tom asks. “I am quite comfortable.”

Chris scrambles back to the camera without even thinking about it, the idea of having this sight permanently available to him through print too good to pass up. If such a thing had ever occurred to him before, he would have dismissed it as impossible for any man not trained in the circus, and yet here Tom is, impossibly contorted and yet insisting he is comfortable, sucking lightly on his own cock as Chris takes the picture, searing the image into his mind.

How a boy of presumably good breeding and education ever discovered he was capable of such a feat, Chris cannot imagine, and frankly, does not care. Tom looks glorious, his legs and ass perfectly defined, a triumph of form and beauty all the more striking for the obsceneness of his self-gratification. Chris stares and stares at the body framed by his lens, until he cannot repress the question foremost in his mind.

 “How long can you hold in that position?” he asks, before his good sense can reassert itself.

“As long as I like,” Tom replies. “Though I’ve never tried for longer than half an hour. How long do you need, sir?”

Chris won’t take nearly half an hour, not with so beautiful a boy in such a pose. He licks his dry lips. “Have you – have you ever been taken in such a state? By a man like me?” he croaks, more delicate words failing him.

Tom’s eyes widen. “No,” he says, and Chris cannot read his tone nor his face; has he frightened him? Disgusted him? He twists his face a little, trying to look at Chris, who keeps himself hidden behind the camera, stomach twisting. “No,” Tom says again, “not like this. You would – you would need to be careful with me, sir. You are much larger than I. Can I trust you not to hurt me?”

“I would never hurt you,” Chris promises and he crosses the space between them, kneels and tilts himself so Tom can see him clearly. “I will be careful, I swear it. And you will tell me if you feel the slightest discomfort?”

“I will,” Tom says, and he looks up at Chris from his tangled limbs, pupils blown, his cheeks stained with colour. “Fuck me, sir,” he says with perfect Etonian intonation. “Fuck me while I suck my own cock.” 

What little sense Chris still possessed breaks at that and he lunges forward to crush his mouth to Tom’s. The fact that the boy’s cock drags along his stubble as he does so only drives him on and he pushes his tongue in Tom’s mouth, desperate and hungry. Tom can barely move but he meets the kiss as best he can, moaning in the back of his throat as he welcomes his tongue into his mouth.

“Finally,” the wretch says when Chris pulls away, mischief glinting in his eyes. “Come on, sir. Please.”

Well, how could anyone refuse him? Chris nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to find a suitable lubricant and in the end resorts to running upstairs to find his private stash of oils. Tom laughs at him as he returns, flustered and desperately uncomfortable in his fitted trousers, but he quiets as he hastily strips, his eyes fixed on Chris’s body. Chris isn’t quite sure what to make of his sudden silence and so he runs his palm over Tom’s arched calves and up and along his thighs, but stills before he reaches his buttocks.

“You are quite certain?” he asks, praying that the sight of him has not put Tom off, but willing to accept it if it has.

“Oh, yes,” Tom says, voice husky. “God, yes. Do it.”

Chris bends to press a kiss to Tom’s forehead and then climbs onto the sofa, standing between Tom’s outstretched arms and considering how best to do this. He cannot risk his weight on the boy, and so he rests one knee on the back of the sofa, angling his body until he is confident he will be able to push himself into Tom without bearing down on him. It is a shame he cannot see the boy’s face, but the sight he has is more than recompense, for his rounded buttocks and long, lean legs are spread out for his pleasure.

Chris pours a generous amount of oil over his fingers and trickles it over Tom’s exposed hole. Despite his frantic lust, he starts slowly, spreading the oil around the rim of Tom’s hole, just brushing his fingers over it, testing the boy’s resistance. He will be tight, so tight, with his body taut and tense as it is, and while the thought is unbearably exciting, Chris knows he must keep himself in check.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he eases one finger into the clinging heat of Tom’s body, wrapping one arm around the boy’s narrow hips so he can keep him in place and stop him bowing any further forward. Tom whimpers but when he stills, he quickly asks for more and Chris obliges, working him open as patiently as he can, sweat beading on his brow as Tom gives the most delightful little gasps every time Chris brushes against his prostrate.

“Sir – I’m ready – you can – sir, Chris, please, fuck me,” Tom begs and it is exactly what Chris has been waiting for. He slicks his cock with the remaining oil and settles himself as comfortably as he can on the sofa back with his cock resting against Tom’s hole. He holds the boy tight by the hips and then slowly pulls his back, pulling him onto his cock instead of pushing his way inside. It takes long moments for the boy’s body to accept him, even stretched as he is, but he does, and Chris groans he sinks in and is gripped tight by the hot walls of Tom’s ass.

Tom is whimpering again, but it’s a broken mess of ‘please’ and ‘yes’ that turns to a long, drawn-out moan as Chris dares to push a little and work a few more inches in. He doesn’t try to seat himself fully, not like this, and so rather than pulling out and slamming back in, he rolls his hips in small, controlled motions, fucking the boy slowly and gently, eyes closed and mouth open at the unbelievable sweetness of the sensation.

He feels Tom’s body clench and then the unmistakeably wet sounds of his cock sliding back into his mouth and, oh God, he is actually doing, he is actually sucking himself as Chris fucks him. His hips jerk at the thought and there’s a muffled yelp from Tom and then the boy actually tries to buck against him, to make him do it again. It’s not particularly effective, given that Tom is pretty much pinned in place now, but Chris grins to himself. He pushes a little harder and Tom makes the noise again.

“Good?” Chris asks, rolling his hips and then jerking forward, and Tom moans loudly. “Good,” Chris repeats, and gives himself over to fucking him, focused on the drag of his cock inside Tom and the blissful heat surrounding him as he listens to Tom noisily sucking on his own cock. He works himself deeper and deeper, an inch at a time, until his balls are slapping against Tom and Tom is keening around his cock.

He can feel his orgasm building, tingling along his thighs, the pressure building in him, and he is gasping, struggling with the effort of holding back, of moving so slowly, but it is good, so good, and unlike his rushed encounters before, now he can luxuriate in the slow build, the steady climb towards his peak. Higher and higher he climbs, until he teeters on the edge and all he can do is thrust, trying to get deeper, further, almost unaware of his desperate grunts and then it’s coming, he’s going to come, he’s so fucking close and then it slams into him, unbearably powerful, roaring through him and he’s emptying himself into the boy beneath him, sheer bliss swallowing him whole.

It feels like one of the longest and strongest orgasms he’s ever had, and it takes him a while to come back to himself, but when he does Chris eases himself out, mindful of where his greater weight rests on Tom, and steps down from the sofa to slump on the floor at Tom’s side. Tom’s legs are trembling and he is panting hard, cock drooling on his cheek, and for a moment Chris worries he has hurt the boy, but before he can ask, Tom resumes sucking himself, cheeks hollowing as he works, eyes squeezed shut and Chris is transfixed. He thinks for a moment and then stands and takes Tom’s legs in one hand and places the other flat on his back, not pushing, just supporting, taking Tom’s weight with ease. Tom whimpers and some of the tension ebbs from his frame as he lets Chris hold him in place, only his thighs still clenched and strained as he sucks frantically.

“That’s it, sweetheart, come on, come for me, darling, darling boy,” Chris coaxes, barely aware of what he is saying, consumed by the sight of Tom drawing closer to orgasm with his own cock thick and wet between his swollen lips. Tom’s whimpers become moans and then one drawn-out muffled wail and his entire body clenches tight as he comes. He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing as he drinks down his own come and Chris’s spent cock twitches at the sight.

“Beautiful, beautiful boy,” Chris tells him as Tom lets his cock slip free from his mouth, still drooling a mixture of salvia and seed, the mess dribbling over his parted lips. Chris leans forward and laps it up before kissing him gently, just flicking his tongue into his slack mouth to taste him better. When he draws back Tom blinks up at him, and a languid smile blooms on his face.

Chris has to help him unfurl, joints popping as he returns to a supine position, and Tom rolls his shoulders awkwardly as Chris attempts to help by massaging the overworked muscles. Tom rather like this, and flops down on his belly so Chris can straddle his hips and rub his big hands over Tom’s shoulders and narrow back, keenly aware of both the fragility of Tom’s bones beneath him and the way his come is trickling from Tom’s pink hole and pooling on the patterned throw.

“How long will it be until the pictures are ready?” Tom asks, head pillowed on crossed arms.

“I am not sure,” Chris hedges, wondering what the purpose of the question is.

“You will write me, so I can come and see them,” Tom says, and it is not a question at all. “You will find me at King’s College. Name of Hiddleston. You could call on me there, if you like.”

“That would be far too dangerous,” Chris protests, hands stilling. Yes, he would very much like to see Tom again – and again and again – but he had thought only to perhaps name a time and place a week hence and hope for the best. “The risk – the scandal – you could not have a man of my years calling on you at the college without arousing the worst kind of suspicion.” Namely, the accurate kind.

“Not at all,” Tom says lazily, wriggling until Chris takes the hint and resumes the broad sweeps of his palms. “Many fellows meet their Uncles for tea in town and so forth. I need only put your name forward as family and no-one will be the wiser.”

“Uncle?” Chris says, feeling a thrill of excitement and loathing himself for it. How has this boy captured him so completely in a few short hours?

“Uncle,” Tom sighs contentedly. “My dearest Uncle…?”

“Hemsworth,” Chris says, and oh, Tom has collared him now and the leash will only tighten. “Christopher Hemsworth.”

“My dearest Uncle Hemsworth,” Tom says. “Who has taken it upon himself to keep a close and loving eye on his only nephew, and who, as an experienced and worldly gentleman, will endeavour to teach the youngster everything he knows.”

“Why I do feel there is little you do not already know, young Thomas?” Chris says and Tom arches his back and throws him a sultry glance over his shoulder.

“Oh, there is so much I want you to teach me,” he says, the rich throb of his voice offset by his angelic countenance. “Starting with how long it might take a gentleman of one-and-thirty to recover from one coupling and be ready for another, and whether that space of time might be reduced by watching a young man fuck himself on his own fingers.”

Chris stares down at him for a long moment. “I have a certain anatomical replica that might suit you better than fingers,” he manages and Tom’s sly smirk becomes a fully-fledged grin.

“I knew we would be fast friends,” he murmurs and Chris cannot help but cover his wicked lips with his own.


	15. Gags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13\. Gags
> 
> Thor/Loki; Peloponnesian War AU, Spartan Thor / Athenian Loki; dubious consent, submissive Thor
> 
> For those who are interested in these things, this is set during the 'Archidamian War' period of the conflict, wherein Sparta would invade Attica for around 3 weeks at a time, stare at Athens' defensive long walls, and then pack up and go home again. 
> 
> We're not going to talk about the stupidity of a pair of Ancient Greeks c. 431 BC being called 'Thor' and 'Loki'. Just assume a botched translation from κεραυνός (Keraunos) and ἄτη (Atë), ok? :)
> 
> Also, [Marty drew this lovely fanart of Spartan Thor and Athenian Loki](http://marty-mc.tumblr.com/post/49664991372/some-rough-sketches-i-made-for-junesouls-au-open) for an entirely different AU!

“What is all this noise?” Thor demands hotly, pushing through the milling warriors, forcing a path through the crush of bodies. There has been no battle this day – nor any other day for well over a week – and he cannot think what has his men so excited. The long walls of Athens still stand; no army has ventured out to meet them; there have been no omens nor portents; bluntly, there has been nothing of interest in this stretch of the Spartan battle-line since they set up camp, and he has no expectation of anything interesting happening before they de-camp and return home to gather the harvest. It all feels like an enormous waste of time.

“A spy!” Fandral shouts, waving Thor over. “We’ve captured an Athenian spy, Thor! Hogan caught him sneaking around the camp!”

Hogan gives Thor a brief nod and nudges the dark-haired Athenian kneeling at his feet. The man turns, shuffling on his knees, and stares impassively at the ground. His chiton is torn and there is a bruise blooming on his cheek, but he is otherwise unharmed, suggesting he was captured with relative ease. Thor strides over and grips him by the hair, forcing him to look up.

“What is your name, Athenian?” Thor demands and the man blinks startlingly green eyes at him.

“Loki,” the man offers, but says nothing more.

“What have you to say for yourself?” Thor pushes, twisting his fingers until the man winces and tears prick at his eyes, but Loki of Athens says nothing and merely looks at Thor. It is an odd look for a man on his knees and in danger of imminent death: calm and collected, more curious than fearful, and it unsettles Thor more than he will show.

“Take him to my tent,” Thor says, pushing the captive’s face aside. “Feed him, strip him and see that he is safely bound. I will interrogate him myself.”

He can hear some of the warriors grumbling quietly as Loki is towed away, but they fall silent when he fixes them with a stare. He understands their irritation, for Loki is strikingly beautiful, and every man’s eyes follow him hungrily as he stumbles across the campsite. A prisoner might be considered fair game for most, but Thor will not have it; the Athenian would be broken beyond repair if he left him with the entire cohort, for his men are bored and restless and starved of entertainment. He is commander here, and so the prize belongs to him, and him alone, as is the Spartan way.

Thor does, however, make the effort to send for the camp-followers from further down the line and parts with some of his own funds to ensure his men will have something to keep them busy once their watch is ended. Sitting and staring at walls suits them all ill, and since the damn Athenians seem determined to cower behind their defences rather than face them in battle like true men, he will do what he can to keep their spirits up.

Idleness and absence of battle seem to breed more duties than actual combat, and what with one thing and another, it is well past sunset by the time he makes his way to his tent, trusting that his men’s discipline will have kept them out. He finds the Athenian spy asleep, slumped awkwardly amidst his rope bindings, his gag lying on the floor beside him. Thor sighs and decides against waking him; in truth, there is little he can learn from him, since he already knows that Athens’ war-plans essentially amount to waiting the Spartans out. He will beat him a little in the morning, for form’s sake, but for now, Thor would rather get some rest and so he gratefully strips out of his armour and stretches out on his pallet, falling almost immediately into a deep sleep.

Thor wakes to a sharp pressure against his throat and the taste of leather in his mouth.

“I must say, I am a little disappointed,” Loki says conversationally as he holds the knife to Thor’s throat. “I had always thought it would be much harder to escape from a Spartan camp. After all, you have _such_ a reputation. But the reality, it seems, is quite different.”

Thor stares at him as his mind works frantically. His wrists and ankles have been secured, very tightly, and both have been tied to something else, for he can barely move. He flexes within the bindings, as subtly as he can, and then with real effort, but he cannot break free. He cannot even properly turn his head to determine how Loki has trussed him up so effectively, and he cannot call for help, for Loki has forced the leather gag into his mouth and it now serves as both a bit between his teeth and a tight covering over his lips.

He is naked, bound and gagged, utterly helpless, and entirely at the mercy of the bastard kneeling over him.

“There is one thing to be said for Spartan single-mindedness,” Loki says thoughtfully as he lays the knife aside and smiles at Thor. “It does produce some spectacular results in body. If only you dedicated yourselves as thoroughly to developing your minds, you might actually present a threat to us.”

Thor snorts as derisively as he can around the gag. Any Spartan is more than the equal of a soft, indolent Athenian, in intelligence as well as strength, which he will prove by working himself free and overpowering this loose-tongued fool. He just needs a little time and –

The thought dies as Loki grabs his face and tilts it up, forcing Thor to lock eyes with him, and Thor cannot help a grunt as his other hand snakes between Thor’s legs and begins to fondle him, the long fingers expertly wrapping themselves around Thor’s cock and insistently stroking him to hardness.

Thor’s eyes widen in shock. Loki cannot possibly mean to – he is no _boy_ , to be bent over for another man’s use! That part of his life is long over; none have had him since he joined the _syssitia_ and counted himself a man, and he is of an age now that he should be looking for a young lad to teach and enjoy after he has done his duty by Sif. And while all know the Athenians are obsessive in their pursuit of pretty boys, he is far too old for Loki to desire him as his _eromenos_.

Sparta is not Thebes, after all; while the joining of youth and mentor is permissible, even favoured, and the using of a warprize’s body a common enough perk of victory, no man of Sparta should ever desire another of equal age and status, should never dream of two warriors coming together in passion, still less crave to be taken by one more powerful than himself. Why, just the thought of it has a shiver running down his spine. It is _forbidden_.

He must resist. To allow Loki to use him so would be shameful, an insult to Sparta and so he must fight. Thor bucks and kicks but Loki simply rides out his thrashing, hand tight around Thor’s cock, his grip on his jaw never slipping. Thor screams every insult he can think of, but the gag is too tight, and he succeeds only in making muffled groans and flooding his mouth with salvia, which soaks through the gag and drools unpleasantly down his chin.

Loki laughs at him as he subsides, half choking on his own spit, and resumes working Thor’s cock. Thor is a healthy and virile man, and has been deprived of his wife’s company for well over a fortnight, and so of course he is rousing at Loki’s touch, his cock swelling beneath those clever fingers, but it means nothing. _Nothing_. He will not be taken by an accursed Athenian!

“All your strength and yet you cannot resist me,” Loki says gleefully, letting go of Thor’s now fully hard cock and watching it slap against his belly. “Where is your vaunted discipline now, Spartan?”

Thor snarls at him but it only seems to amuse Loki further, and so he stops and tries a new tactic, forcing himself to lay still and feign indifference as well as he can. Loki grins wolfishly at him and leans in so he can run his fingers through Thor’s long hair in a parody of affection.

“I would love to remove that gag and have you on your knees for me,” Loki murmurs, clearly enjoying how Thor’s face twists at his words. “To see how glorious you would look with my cock sheathed in your flesh, as you moaned like a bitch in heat and pleaded for more, for everything I would give you. I would like to have you beaten and broken and begging, and I would, Spartan, oh, believe me, I would.”

Loki sighs dramatically and presses a kiss to Thor’s forehead, the chaste gesture entirely ruined by the wicked look in his eyes. “But, alas, I have little time and I cannot trust that you will not scream so loud that your friends would come rushing in to find us. So, sadly, your mouth will remain stopped up.”

Thor has too little leverage to really react to Loki’s filthy imaginings, but he does what he can to express his outrage, twisting underneath Loki and bucking hard against him. That the movement will only push his cock harder against Loki’s body is something he does not think of until it is happening, and Loki kisses him again, brushes his lips over Thor’s cheek, and rolls his hips so his own swollen cock drags against Thor’s.

“I think you rather like the idea,” Loki whispers against Thor’s ear. “Has it been so long since another had mastery over you? Poor little Spartan: so good, so noble, so utterly blind to what you really want. I may be called a deviant in Athens, but at least I am free to do as I please. You are more a slave than the _helots_ you fear so much. Is this why you insisted on having me brought to your tent? Did you want your captive to capture you?”

No, Thor thinks furiously, _never_ , but Loki’s words settle on his skin like spider’s webs and he cannot help a shudder.

“I see,” Loki says, still rolling his hips, his face so very close to Thor’s. “Well, perhaps the gods truly do favour your cause, Thor of Sparta, for they have delivered you to me, and I can give you what you want.”

Loki slips a hand back between Thor’s legs, brushing gently over his throbbing cock and heavy balls and then slowly, gently, skirting lower, easing between Thor’s asscheeks to stroke lightly over his hole. Thor shudders again and, without thinking, tries to spread his legs. The ankle bindings bring him up short, and he must bend his knees and let his thighs fall outward instead. It is shameful, so shameful, and he must not – but – but Loki has overpowered him and it is not – it is not truly his choice and therefore he can – he can -

“Oh,” Loki says, stilling, looking down between them, and for the first time he sounds surprised. “I – wait, you – you want this? You actually _want_ me to -”

Thor whimpers, willing Loki not to speak, not to compound his shame by speaking the truth aloud, and looks up at him with pleading eyes. Loki stares at him with wide eyes, looking utterly shocked. His gaze rakes Thor, taking in his submissive pose and his flushed cock, and the shock turns to consideration as his attention comes to rest on Thor’s burning face.

“I had thought only to shame you, as vengeance for my capture,” Loki murmurs, more to himself than Thor. “But this – this is not what I expected. In a Spartan, and the great warrior Thor, no less…”

 Watching Thor’s face carefully, Loki drags his finger over Thor’s fluttering hole again and pushes his cock against Thor in the same movement. Thor moans and arches into both touches, hating himself and yet only excited further by the knowledge of how shameful his actions are.

“Well, well,” Loki says, slightly breathless, “it seems the gods favour us both tonight, Thor.” He smiles brightly for a moment, looking genuinely thrilled, but then he shutters away his glee and whatever else skitters across his face, and when he speaks again, he is calm and controlled and cruel again.

“Look at you, you greedy little whore. Are all Spartans such cock-hungry beasts, or are you something special?” A hot flush of shame rushes over Thor, leaving him breathless and burning and wanting more.

“I ought to punish you for your presumption,” Loki snarls. “I ought to bind your cock as I have bound your hands, and keep you as my slave, letting you service me but denying you your release until you have _earned_ it. But I do not have the time to waste on the likes of you.”

Thor gasps around the gag at the idea of it, of being kept on a leash like a dog, at the sheer humiliation of being spoken to in such a way, and his cock leaps and he whines again, high-pitched and needy.

Loki glances around, and for a moment the mask is gone and Thor can see the hope, the thrill on his face. He soon spots what he is after though, and he pulls himself away from Thor to grab the massage oil that Thor keeps – for use after battle only, of course – and when he returns, instead of lying against Thor he kneels between his bowed legs and yanks Thor up and onto his lap.

Thor is even more exposed like this, hips tilted up and thighs spread as wide as he can, and as Loki coats his fingers with oil, he keeps his gaze fixed on Thor’s body and not his face. “Luckily for you, you are a pretty little whore,” Loki says, rubbing slick fingers over Thor’s hole and grinning nastily as Thor trembles. “And so I am willing to be generous and give you the fucking you so obviously crave.”

Thor cannot even manage a moan before Loki presses a finger into him, the intrusion strange and unnerving after so long, and he instinctively tenses up. “Don’t play the tease now,” Loki growls at him, but he gentles the slide of his finger, adds more oil, and takes his time before adding the second so he can properly scissor Thor open.

Just as Thor is getting used to the dark thrill of being known so intimately again, by a man of his age and station, Loki slides his fingers out and Thor is left bereft. He grunts and tries to hook his ankles behind Loki, with the thought of pulling him forward, but he has forgotten how tightly he is restrained, and so he can only writhe in frustration.

“So desperate,” Loki mocks, reaching out to squeeze the head of Thor’s cock as he lines his own up with Thor’s entrance. “So wet and loose and hungry for me.” The head of Loki’s cock bumps up against Thor’s hole and he keens because yes, he is desperate, yes he is hungry, and this is what he wants, what he has wanted for years and he cannot wait any longer for it.

And thankfully he doesn’t have to, because Loki pushes him into him in one long thrust, the burn agonisingly pleasurable as it stretches him wide, pushing the breath from his lungs and his head thuds against the floor as he arches and Loki drags him even further onto his lap.

“You’re so tight,” Loki says, suddenly sounding desperate himself. “Thor, you’re so – oh, you haven’t had anyone in years, have you? But you’re mine now, all mine, just look at you, so beautiful  -”

Thor squeezes his eyes tight because he can’t cope with this, can’t have Loki so fond and delighted, so – so _loving_ as he spears Thor on his cock, he can’t, he can’t –

“Look at me,” Loki snaps, and the sharpness in his voice eases some of the tightness in Thor’s chest and he can obey, can look more easily at Loki as he digs his fingers hard into Thor’s hips. “I own you now, little whore. You will look at me as I fuck you, so you will know who your master is.”

Thor manages a nod and Loki begins to move, holding Thor in place as he fucks him with short, fast thrusts, using him brutally and ignoring Thor’s aching cock. It is rough and frantic and Thor is so grateful for the gag as he gasps and moans, helpless in his restraints as Loki fucks him hard.

“That’s it,” Loki hisses, “take it, little whore. You are mine, _mine_ , and all tomorrow you shall ache, body bruised and battered, and none shall know why but me, and every time you move you will be reminded that _I_ did this to you, that I mastered you, the great Spartan warrior, and you loved every second of it -”

Loki’s grip tightens painfully on Thor’s hips and he shoves forward, teeth gritted, and then he moans, face slackening, and Thor feels his cock twitch inside him and then he comes, filling Thor up, a wet, warm gush inside him and Thor is claimed and used and he sobs at the pleasure of it.

Loki is slumped over him, trembling, cock still buried inside him, and for a moment Thor wonders if he will leave him like this, leave him wanting and unfulfilled, only to roll him over and use him again, take him as many times as he can and only once he is fully spent and Thor’s body soaked in sweat and seed will he let him come – but no, he cannot, Thor realises with a stab of sorrow, for he must escape, must get back to the Athenian walls before daybreak.

Loki sits back up, hair mussed and eyes bright with satisfaction and Thor stares at him in adoration, for he is beautiful and wonderful and Thor is going to lose him at any moment. Loki smiles at him and arches over him so his face is tucked against Thor’s and he can whisper in his ear.

“I want you to scream, Spartan whore,” Loki tells him, and then his hand on Thor’s cock and he jerks him brutally hard, raking the fingernails of his other hand across Thor’s sensitive balls and the sudden sensation is overwhelming and Thor surges into Loki’s grip and then Loki bites his neck, hard enough to draw blood and Thor is screaming, thrashing, choking on the gag, and the white-hot fire of his orgasm rips through him, all the sweeter against the sudden pain as the ropes burn his wrists and ankles as he writhes and the dull ache where Loki’s teeth are fastened at his neck.

He slumps, exhausted, hazy in the aftermath, and cannot manage to protest as Loki kisses his neck and pulls out, leaving Thor a filthy mess as he rises to his feet and wipes himself clean on Thor’s  discarded clothing. Thor watches, blissful and careless, as he dresses himself and picks up the forgotten knife, tucking it into his belt before turning to Thor.

Loki looms over, face impassive, and then he moves out of Thor’s field of vision and a sudden panic seizes him. Does Loki mean to leave him in his restraints until morning? His men cannot find him like this – so obviously used and overcome – they would lose all respect for him, he will lose his reputation, his place, everything –

Loki’s hands squeeze his tightly and then they guide the knife handle to his palm and help him grip it in place, so the blade rests against the knotted rope. “Will this be enough?” Loki murmurs, and Thor nods. He can cut himself free in moments. But he does not yet begin to do so, choosing instead to look up at Loki, who is hesitating instead of fleeing.

“If I were to infiltrate your camp again,” he says, “perhaps I might come straight to this tent instead of assessing your men. Perhaps – perhaps I might surprise you in your sleep. Again.”

Thor nods again, jerkily, and Loki takes a step closer and picks at the knotted gag, easing it from Thor’s mouth. “Perhaps we would not need this,” he says softly, cupping Thor’s face.

Thor licks his dry and chapped lips. “You will get no secrets from me, Athenian,” he says, voice hoarse. “No matter how you torture me.” But he turns his face into Loki’s palm and kisses it, opens his mouth and flicks his tongue over Loki’s fingers and Loki makes a pleased sound in return.

“I shall take that as a challenge, Spartan dog,” Loki sneers, but he stoops to press a fond kiss to Thor’s mouth before vanishing into the night and Thor sighs happily as he sets to cutting himself loose.


	16. Medical play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18\. Medical play   
> Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth, school boy Tom (18)/school nurse Chris, age difference  
> Inspired by [this photo](http://31.media.tumblr.com/25c8ac32ffefbee2e7cae6c578ac360a/tumblr_mujzgn7EX91r7f4fuo1_500.jpg) and [this quote](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/63545816808)

There’s a knock at the door, a distinctive two-three pattern, and Chris looks up from his paperwork to see Tom standing in the doorway. He’s wearing his rugby kit and has once hand pressed to the juncture of his thigh; his face is creased in pain and he hobbles into Chris’s office hissing through his teeth.

“Oh, dear,” Chris sighs. “Pulled something in P.E., have we?”

“I think so, Mr. Hemsworth,” Tom says as the door slides shut behind him. As soon as it clicks shut the boy straightens up smoothly, all pretence at injury vanishing, and he flicks the deadbolt locked before hopping up onto the examination bed in a fluid motion. “I need you to take a look at me, sir,” Tom says with apparent sincerity, biting his lip and shifting his weight. “If you have a minute.”

“For you, Tom, of course,” Chris says and they exchange familiar smiles as Chris closes his files and lifts his phone off the hook. It’s yet another quiet day for Chris; he finds subbing as a school nurse incredibly dull after years working in busy hospitals, but there are certain advantages to having long periods of time with nothing that desperately needs doing, especially when the Head Boy has a bad habit of hurting himself and being sent to the nurse’s office to be looked after.

“Where does it hurt?” Chris asks, rolling his chair across the floor. With Tom sitting on the examination bed and him still seated, the boy’s groin is exactly at his eye level. Tom spreads his legs and runs a hand lazily over his crotch.

“Here,” he says breathily, stroking his hand over the erection burgeoning against his shorts. “It aches and it’s swollen. I just don’t know what to do.”

Chris swallows a laugh at the boy’s terrible flirting, wondering if he gets his lines from porn movies or his own over-active imagination. But this is half the fun for both of them and so he knits his brow and looks as serious as he can.

“Show me,” he says, and Tom shuffles his shorts down so his cock can spring free and yes, indeed, it is swollen and no doubt aching. Tom palms it lazily and watches Chris from underneath his eyelashes, pretty pink lips slightly parted as he wets them with his tongue.

“Mmm,” Chris says, leaning in from his chair in a pretence of examination. “I can see the problem. You’d best stand up so I can check you over.”

Tom shudders visibly, eyes darkening, and he hops off the bed to stand in front of Chris, shorts tangled round his ankles, the hem of his rugby jersey just skimming his ass and the base of his cock. Chris stands and notes wryly that he only has a handful of inches on Tom now he’s reached the six foot mark, and whose lankiness is finally settling into lean grace as he works through the last of his puppy fat. Still, Tom has to tilt his head back to meet his eyes and he doesn’t have half of Chris’s bulk, making it all too easy to loom over him and box him in.

“Lift your shirt,” he says quietly and Tom obeys, pulling the jersey up to reveal his pale chest and reddened nipples, his chest rising and falling with quick pants as he exposes himself. Chris makes a show of visibly checking him over, and kneels so he can run his broad palms dispassionately from Tom’s ankles to his hipbones, squeezing at the muscles and joints but studiously ignoring Tom’s bobbing erection. By the time he has both hands flat on Tom’s chest, tapping out the racing rhythm of his heartbeat, the boy is so over-excited his legs are trembling and his hips twitching as pre-come drools from the shiny head.

Oh, to be a teenager again, Chris thinks, amused, but Tom’s on a hair-trigger and he doesn’t want the game to be over just yet, so he takes his hands away, regretfully eyeing the boy’s pert nipples and soft white throat, just begging to be marked.

“Turn around,” Chris says, “and brace yourself against the bed. I think we’d better give you a _thorough_ examination today.”

Tom nods, eyes bright, and hurriedly gets into position, elbows on the bed and bent slightly at the waist, kicking one foot free from his shorts so he can spread his legs wide as he presents his ass to Chris. Chris takes his time moving around the office, getting the lubricant out of the cupboard and putting on a surgical glove, noting with a small smile Tom’s muffled whimper as he snaps the glove before coating it in lube.

He also unzips his trousers and eases out his own half-hard cock with his bare hand, before standing behind Tom, as close as he can, his clothed legs brushing against the backs of Tom’s bare calves, and watches the shiver ripple over the boy’s ass and thighs.

“Relax,” he murmurs, rubbing his gloved finger over Tom’s exposed hole and Tom whimpers again, tries to push back against it. “Let me take care of you.” He circles around the tight pucker first, listens to Tom’s pants become whines and then gently pushes just one finger inside. Tom exhales raggedly and he presses a kiss to the small of his back, murmurs encouragement as he waits for the boy’s body to relax again, to accept the intrusion, and then he gently begins to move, rocking his body slowly against Tom’s in time with the careful thrusting of his finger, his cock rubbing lightly over the boy’s ass, just a tantalising pressure on the firm flesh of his buttocks.

Soon he can add a second finger and work Tom open until he can put some force into the fingering, not enough to hurt, but enough to have the boy shuddering and writhing, hips rolling as he pushes back into Chris’s hand and tries to grind himself against Chris’s body, head resting on his crossed arms to muffle his squeaks and cries. Chris keeps him firmly in place with his lower body and pushes his thick fingers in and out of Tom’s fluttering hole, teeth clenched to keep himself quiet as he fucks him with his fingers. He daren’t add more than two, not when Tom has another hour of lessons after this aborted P.E. class, but he gives him all he can, until Tom is trembling and muttering under his breath.

“Please, oh, please, Mr. Hemsworth, sir,” Tom babbles as Chris leans over him to listen, pressing his chest against Tom’s bowed back, and Chris kisses the back of his neck before slipping his bare hand around Tom’s narrow waist and sliding it down the boy’s sweat-slick abdomen to grasp his rock-hard cock. He doesn’t stroke though, not yet; instead, he stills his fingers inside Tom and begins to stroke his velvety inner walls, searching out the boy’s prostate gland with experienced fingertips.

“Please!” Tom yelps when he finds it and begins to rub over the firm bundle of nerves, the shaking in his body intensifying until Chris is as much holding him up as pining him down. “Please, please,” he moans, and he begs so prettily that Chris cannot help but oblige him, and he tightens his grip on Tom’s slick cock and pumps him slowly. He moves as slowly as he can, fingers just brushing inside Tom and hand sliding over Tom’s throbbing cock, and Tom moans again, wordless and needy, trying to grind, to move faster, but helpless against Chris’s strength.

He’s so beautiful like this and Chris tells him so, speeding up his movements as Tom’s body tightens beneath him, Tom keening one low note as he bucks between Chris’s hands, but the boy can’t last and he comes within moments, sobbing as his ass clenches tightly around Chris’s fingers and his come floods over his hand.

Chris withdraws his hand and pulls off the glove, throwing it into the biohazard bin and wiping off his other hand with a cleaning wipe. Tom uncurls from the bed, face flushed, dazed with pleasure, and he grabs at Chris, tugs him down into a wet and messy kiss before Chris can clean off the come that has splashed against his belly.

“I want to suck you,” Tom tells him, eyes wild, tugging at the cuffs of his rugby jersey. “Please, Mr. Hemsworth. Let me get on my knees for you.”

Chris swears but Tom is already pushing him down into his chair and he lets him, lets him kneel between his spread legs and lick at Chris’s now aching erection, eyes fluttering closed as the thick head pushes between his lips and he lathes his tongue over the smooth shaft. Chris tangles his fingers in Tom’s curly hair but makes no attempt to guide him, lets him bob enthusiastically in Chris’s lap, just as messy and wet as his kisses, saliva pouring down his chin as he sucks on Chris’s fat cock.

There’s a second squelching noise and Chris sits up enough to see that Tom has pushed the fingers of his left hand back into his loose hole while the right jerks furiously at his renewed erection and Christ, to be eighteen again, but it’s hard to hold onto that thought as Tom hollows his cheeks and sucks hard at Chris, whimpering with pleasure, and his own orgasm is rippling through his clenched thighs and coiling in his belly and he leans back, sinks into it, lets it rise and lift him up until he’s shaking with it, choking off a grunt as it peaks and he comes, seed flooding Tom’s mouth.

“Say, ‘aahhh’,” Chris says, mock-serious as he looks down, and Tom looks at him with lust-filled eyes, fluffy curls mussed between Chris’s fingers.

“Aahhh,” he says, opening wide, and sticks his tongue out so Chris can see his own come pooled on it, creamy white against Tom’s pink tongue.

“Good boy,” Chris murmurs. “Now take your medicine.”

Tom swallows happily and leans back in to lick a little more from Chris’s softening cock. Chris lets him suck the last dregs before he gently pushes him back and helps him to his feet, batting his hands away as he lifts him into his lap and replaces Tom’s fingers with his own. He lets Tom writhe on two fingers as his other hand settles flat on his back, keeping him steady and secure as he leans back in the chair, and he watches avidly as Tom strokes himself to a second orgasm, hips pumping as his cock spurts.

“Chris…” Tom sighs as he slumps and Chris kisses him again, lets him snuggle against his chest for a few moments as they relax, hearts slowing, sticky and satisfied. Tom climbs down, wincing slightly, and wipes his hand clean as Chris tucks himself back into his trousers. Tom pulls his own shorts back up and Chris checks him over and makes an attempt to smooth his tousled hair.

“All better?” he asks and Tom flashes him a cheeky grin.

“Much,” he says cheerfully, and he’s just so adorable Chris can’t resist one last kiss, soft and sweet, just brushing his lips over Tom’s and holding him tight, Tom responding by clinging to him with all his strength.

“Now that’s the third ‘injury’ you’ve had this week,” he points out when Tom finally lets go. “You need to be more careful with yourself.”

“What can I say?” Tom shrugs. “Everyone knows I’m dreadfully accident prone.”

“There’s only six weeks of term left,” Chris says quietly, cupping Tom’s face in his hands. “Don’t get careless and get us caught now. Once you’re in college, we won’t need to sneak around like this.”

“I can’t wait,” Tom says, eager and hopeful. “And then you’ll fuck me, right? Once I’ve left school?”

“Once you’ve left school,” Chris promises; that was what they agreed when against all common sense he let himself fall for Tom’s bright charm and easy affection. “You can wait a little longer, Tom. It’ll be worth it.”

“I know, I know,” Tom pouts and Chris wonders if he has any idea how hard he makes it for Chris to hold on, to keep to the boundaries he set himself.

“Go on now, back to class,” Chris says. “And remember to limp a little.”

“Oh, I’ll be feeling it all day,” Tom says with a smirk and Chris sighs as he saunters away, adopting a shuffling gait as soon as he gets out the door. He really is an excellent actor, at least, Chris thinks, unable to stop himself from watching as Tom limps down the corridor.

Tom turns at the end and waves. “Thank you, Nurse Hemsworth!” he sings out, the picture of innocence and Chris waves back.

“Any time, Tom. Any time.”


	17. Oral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **19\. Oral sex**  
>  Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth, catboy Tom, standing sixty-nine  
> Set in the same world as [One very special cat](http://archiveofourown.org/works/930507/chapters/1810346), but with the roles reversed :)  
> Inspired by [velociraptor-hands tags for this picture of Chris](http://velociraptor-hands.tumblr.com/post/62550126500/black-nata-heterosexual-men-doing-heterosexual). In case you're wondering, yes, [standing 69s are possible](http://www.manhub.com/watch/215327/two-cuties-sixty-nine-while-standing/), but bloody difficult if you are not a Feline Hybrid.  
> [mrhiddles](http://mrhiddles.tumblr.com) drew [gorgeous art of cat!Tom and Chris](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/63808001171)!

Chris has almost, _almost_ finished job three of the sixteen on his to-do list when he hears a dull thud from the living room and a distinctive, displeased yowl. This is swiftly followed by another thud. And another yowl. And again: thud and now a louder yowl. Thud. Longer, louder, the-world-will-end-if-no-one-pays-attention-to-me-yowl and ok, Chris has had enough.

“Tom!” he shouts. “What the hell are you doing in there?”

There’s a sulky silence and then what sounds like someone trying to thud and yowl more quietly and failing miserably. Right.

Chris stomps into the living room and glares at Tom, who is now sitting on the floor and nonchalantly licking himself. “What are you _doing_?” he growls and Tom gives him an innocent look, somewhat spoilt by the fact that his tongue is still hanging out and that he’s neglected to put on anything more than a pair of what looks suspiciously like Chris’s boxers, riding low on his hips so his tail can move freely.

Despite being more of a dog person, Chris had, after much consideration, decided on getting a Feline on the assumption that they would need less attention than a Canine, and so wouldn’t interfere on the days Chris works from home. He’d figured that since everyone says cats are aloof and unfriendly bastards, a Feline Hybrid wouldn’t be that much different, right?

Wrong. Chris has only had Tom for a few weeks and he’s already learnt that while Tom is certainly capable of keeping himself to himself for hours on end, when he does want company, he is an absolute pain in the ass until he gets it. But Chris is sure that if he just keeps on being strict with Tom, he’ll eventually learn. He’s very intelligent, after all. He’s already learnt that Chris’s small second-bedroom-cum-office is absolutely off limits, and he is not to try and get in when the door is shut and Chris is working.

“I want to play with the dangly,” Tom says, as if this is a reasonable explanation for the racket.

“Don’t be cute,” Chris warns. “What ‘dangly’ thing are you after?”

“The fan cord,” Tom says, tail twitching from side to side. “I want to play with it. But it’s too high.”

Chris looks up and yes, there is a pull cord dangling from the ceiling fan. It’s mostly tied up since he never uses it, but the tangled string is swinging a little in the breeze from the open window, and he can see how it would attract Tom’s attention. Presumably, Tom has been leaping for it and missing, hence the thudding and yowling.

“Play with something else,” he says irritably; he’s not spending half an hour untangling the thing just so Tom can play with it and snarl it up again. Tom has dozens and dozens of other toys and can amuse himself with one of them.

“But I want the dangly,” Tom whinges, tail thrashing more violently. “Chris, I _want_ it. I want it, I want it, I WANT it -”

“Oh, for christsakes,” Chris says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. Fine! If I let you play with it for five minutes – five minutes only! – will you be quiet for the rest of the afternoon so I can get some bloody work done?”

“Yes!” Tom says, scrambling to his feet as his voice thickens with the beginnings of a purr. “Yes, of course. I promise I’ll be good.”

Chris doubts it, but he might at least be quiet, and so with a sigh he crosses the room to where Tom is wriggling his hips in excitement. He looks up at the fan cord, which is definitely more tangled than tied, and makes his decision.

He grabs Tom by the waist and hoists him up, Tom squeaking in surprise, until Tom is high enough that he can reach the dangling cord. It’s not really much of an effort for him, and he is more than capable of holding him like this for five minutes – and five minutes is all he’s getting.

“Go on then,” he says as Tom squirms in his arms. “Play away.”

Tom makes a funny chirruping noise as Chris points him at the cord and then he reaches out and bats it hesitantly. It swings away and then back, and Tom swipes at it more vigorously, claws extending as he does so, and his wriggling intensifies as he happily attacks the cord.

The wriggling is quite…distracting actually, Chris realises, and the way Tom’s tail is lashing across Chris’s crotch as he twists his hips and grinds against Chris’s belly is not helping either. Tom is panting as he works himself up, tilting forward in Chris’s arms so he can tangle the cord around his hands and brings it to his mouth to bite, and this just pushes his arse further into Chris as his ears flick against Chris’s jaw.

It’s impossible to ignore how attractive Tom is, but he has to have some self-control, dammit, otherwise he’ll never get anything done. This isn’t any worse than Tom curling up in his lap and kneading at his chest, or sprawling naked on the floor, napping in a sunbeam, or when he licks himself, slowly and deliberately, with a flexibility Chris hadn’t known a humanoid spine was capable of, or every time he purrs and purrs at Chris’s touch, pushing his head against Chris’s fingers and shamelessly begging for more and – and this train of thought is _really_ not doing him any favours.

Ok, kitty playtime is over. Chris needs to calm down or he’s never going to get his work done. “I’m going to put you down now,” he tells Tom, who is simultaneously chewing on the cord and unsuccessfully trying to bring his feet up to kick it. “Let go of the cord.”

Tom yowls in frustration. “Now, Tom,” Chris says firmly, pretending he is bored and not in any way incredibly turned on. “Let go.”

Tom does let go, but before Chris can do anything he twists like a snake and gets his hands on Chris’s shoulders; he somehow manages to rotate his entire body from where he is anchored to Chris and wraps his long legs tightly around Chris’s waist. Chris’s arms are now holding him close instead of holding him up, and he couldn’t put him down if he wanted to, since Tom is clinging to him like he’s a tree. Tom stares at Chris, only inches away, and all Chris can focus on is his huge eyes and swamped pupils. He can feel Tom’s chest heaving against his, his heart going a mile a minute, and is horribly aware Tom’s arse is only an inch or two above his very insistent erection.

“Get down,” he says, but it is impossible to sound either commanding or bored with a panting, wild-eyed Tom wrapped around him.

“I want to play,” Tom tells him, utterly serious and yet still wriggling, his hips twitching to the same rhythm as the tip of his tail, which is dancing in Chris’s peripheral vision. “Play with me.”

Christ, but he’s watched porn less erotic than Tom asking him that in his crisp accent. “I can’t,” he replies. “I’m too busy. You know I have to work today.”

“You can,” Tom corrects him and he licks the tip of his nose playfully. “You need a break. And I want to play with you.” He pushes his face into the crook of Chris’s neck and nuzzles against him, his velvety-soft ears rubbing along Chris’s stubble.

Chris swallows heavily. “Stop that,” he says weakly; of course, Tom takes no notice whatsoever and begins to punctuate his face-rubbing with gentle licks, just flicking his tongue over Chris’s neck while he makes a low crooning noise, almost a purr, but not quite. Tom relaxes his legs a little, letting his body sag, and before Chris realises what’s happening, his arse bumps against the tip of Chris’s by now very uncomfortable cock.

Chris automatically shifts his grip, dropping one hand to grab Tom’s arse so he can support his weight, the other still wrapped around Tom at chest height. It’s not until Tom giggles and clenches his arsecheeks that Chris fully realises what he’s done. But it’s too late anyway: Tom has shifted from wriggling to grinding, pushing his crotch against Chris’s stomach and yeah, that’s Tom’s own erection he can feel through Tom’s boxers and that’s Tom’s tail teasing over his groin.

“You bastard,” Chris says with feeling and Tom nips him lightly. “You utter bastard.”

Tom just purrs at him and keeps rocking and Chris can’t even remember why this is a bad idea. He squeezes the handful of Tom’s arse he has and Tom mewls in response, his tongue rough and wet against Chris’s neck. Ok, yeah, he’s doing this and to hell with the deadlines.

It’s no effort at all to walk with Tom to the back wall, and yet it takes far too long since Tom will not stop licking and biting at his neck, body flexing against him, and Chris is panting like he’s run a marathon by the time he shoves Tom up against the wall.

“I need to get our pants off,” he says between gasps, and it might not be his smoothest line ever but it certainly perks Tom up. He locks his arms tightly around Chris and shifts his legs higher, so Chris feels confident enough to let go of him for the few minutes it takes him to yank his sweatpants far enough down that his cock can spring free. Tom doesn’t seem to be climbing down from him any time soon, so rather than try and wrestle with the boxers, he just unbuttons the fly and pulls Tom’s cock out.

Tom grins smugly as Chris returns both his hands back to his arsecheeks and takes his weight again, pushing him against the wall to help keep them steady. It takes a bit of shifting on his part and even more wriggling on Tom’s, but once their bodies line up it’s the simplest thing in the world to roll his hips and let their cocks drag along each other. To be honest, he’s got nothing fancier in mind that just grinding into Tom’s willing body while Tom mouths at him; he may not like to kiss, but he’s got a hell of an oral fixation and Chris has near-perpetual love bites all along his throat and clavicle from where Tom has worried at him with his sharp teeth.

But Tom has other ideas. “Can you hold me up?” he asks, nipping at Chris’s ear, and Chris pulls back enough so he can look him in the face.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he pants but Tom just grin at him, pupils huge and ears pulled back.

“Hold still,” he tells Chris and then he twists, bending in impossible ways and Chris is left totally confused as he wriggles out of his grip and somehow turns himself upside down, claws digging into Chris as he uses him as his personal climbing tree.

“Tom, what are you – ow! Jesus, Tom, watch your claws – what are you _doing_?” Chris asks, but Tom ignores him, intent on whatever he’s up to.

“Can you lift me up?” he says once he stops moving, flicking his tail at Chris’s arms. Tom has his arms tight around Chris’s waist and has locked his ankles behind Chris’s head; he’s hanging off him like a goddamn bat or something.

“Sure,” Chris says, bewildered, and it’s easy enough to put an arm around Tom’s waist and get a good grip on his leg with the other and hoist him up and ah, now he gets it as Tom’s cock draws level with his face and Tom’s breath ghosts across his crotch. “This is a lot of work,” he observes as he leans Tom against the wall and adjusts his grip, makes sure he can hold him in this position.

“This is _fun_ ,” Tom corrects him, and there’s really no need to argue when he licks over Chris’s cock, his slightly rougher-than-human tongue catching on the sensitive skin in a way that has Chris shuddering with excitement. Chris has to tilt his head slightly to do the same to Tom’s cock, but it’s worth it to hear Tom’s long, drawn-out mewl as he swallows as much of it as he can reach.

Tom loves to sixty-nine, and Chris is convinced it’s part of Tom’s general fetish for grooming him, pushing his cheeks and chin against every part of Chris’s body, constantly licking at his bare skin, and having Chris groom him in return as much as a human possibly can. He loves to roll around in their combined scents and insists on mutual scent-marking every few hours and especially after the dreaded showers.

Yet even without Tom’s augmented senses he can see the appeal as the smell of Tom’s arousal surrounds him and the taste of him fills his mouth even as his own cock is enveloped in the wet heat of Tom’s mouth. Tom’s cock is heavy on his tongue and he sucks at it enthusiastically, circling the head with his tongue and then bobbing up and down on it as much as he can, and Tom mimics his every move, setting the same pace as he clings tightly to Chris’s waist.

Tom is absolutely incapable of keeping still and his tail is lashing from side to side as he sucks on Chris’s cock, hips jerking with the movement and he is making a hungry noise in the back of his throat that Chris can feel vibrating along his cock and where Tom’s chest is pressed against his abdomen. He grunts in return and works a little more of Tom’s cock into his mouth, his grip on Tom’s leg preventing him from thrusting, and shifts the arm around his waist a little higher until his fingers brush across the small of Tom’s back. He shifts again and manages to get a grip on the base of Tom’s tail and begins to massage it roughly, digging his fingers into the knot of muscle.

Tom goes rigid and then he suddenly begins sucking harder, faster, much more sloppily as he opens his mouth to pant, salvia drooling down Chris’s cock as Tom groans. He’s losing control over what he’s doing, throat fluttering around Chris’s cock as he cries out, moans turning to a rising yowl as his hips jerk and he tries to drive himself into Chris’s mouth. Chris keeps him still and licks and mouths at him at his own pace, still working the base of his tail, pre-come now exploding on his tongue as Tom’s climax builds, and he can’t help his own thrusts, sliding his own cock in and out of Tom’s slack mouth as he wails and writhes in his arms.

He can feel Tom’s orgasm coming from the way his legs tense and his tail thrashes wildly and so he’s ready for it when Tom shrieks loudly around his cock and he swallows, lets Tom’s come pour down his throat, ignoring the pinpricks of pain where Tom’s claws are digging into his sides, focusing instead on the creamy taste.

Tom slumps in his arms, panting furiously, but only for a moment; then he renews his lapping at Chris’s cock and Chris lets Tom’s cock and tail both slip free as he concentrates on the pleasure curling up from his toes, on the powerful muscles of Tom’s throat working around his cock, his tongue just the right side of rough and he pushes forward into that welcoming heat and then Tom purrs, the low sound vibrating up from his chest and along the walls of his throat, buzzing against Chris’s cock. It’s good, it’s great and he’s close, so close, and then Tom drags his rough tongue over the head of his cock, catching on the slit and he’s coming, crying out as the pleasure crashes over him and empties himself into Tom’s waiting mouth.

Chris slumps to the ground and groans as he falls flat on his back, Tom still wrapped around him like a vine. Tom’s non-stop purring has the same rhythm and volume as a car engine turning over and Chris can barely manage a twitch as he laps happily at Chris’s spent cock, licking up the last drops of come and sweat, before sprawling out next to Chris and raising one leg so he can do the same to himself with eye-watering flexibility.

“Ok,” Chris says when Tom at last finishes cleaning himself up, “Ok, right, now I really have to get back to work. Will you be good for the rest of the afternoon?”

“Of course,” Tom says, yawning widely, his pink tongue an elegant curl. “I’m going to nap now.”

“Great,” Chris says, picking himself up and tugging up his trousers. Tom watches him with a smug, satisfied smile as he grabs a drink and heads back into the office, where he guiltily ignores the twelve increasingly urgent emails from his boss and squints at the project file, trying to remember exactly where he was before playtime.

Five minutes later there’s a thud and a yowl.

Chris sighs and unplugs the laptop. Really, he can work just as well on the sofa, and Tom’s head on his lap, steady purring and occasional demands for chin scratches aren’t _that_ much of a distraction. When he gets out there, Tom’s already settled on his half of the sofa, ears twitching expectantly as Chris takes his place beside him.

“That’s better,” Tom murmurs as he nuzzles sleepily into Chris’s thigh. Chris shoots him a look, but he’s the picture of innocence, face and belly upturned, chest rising and falling with his soft, buzzing purr, feet and hands tucked up and tail wrapped around his thighs.

Hmm. Well, Chris can always show him who’s boss tomorrow. He’s sure to learn sooner or later; after all, he’s very intelligent…


	18. Explaining a kink to a partner & roleplaying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **24\. Roleplaying & 10\. Explaining a kink to their partner **  
> Thor/Loki, **Roleplaying of dub-con/bordering on non-con** , rough sex, Loki has serious issues

“I want you to be rough with me,” Loki says, forcing himself to uncurl his clawed hands. “I want you to scream at me and use me and not stop no matter what I say. I want you to be cruel, in word and deed. I want you to make me suffer.”

“Od’s blood, _why_?” Thor asks, looking horrified. “I would never hurt anyone so, least of all you.”

“I _know_ that, Thor,” Loki snaps. “That is the point. It is a game, played between us. I only pretend to struggle and you only pretend that you do not care.”

“But I love you,” Thor says plaintively. “After all that has happened between us – why would you want us to be at each other’s throats again? When we now have peace and affection in place of violence and hate?”

“Because I _want_ it,” Loki says, tasting bile as Thor looks at him with sad, worried eyes. Of course Thor does not understand. Thor _never_ understands. Thor is perfect, the perfect warrior, the perfect warrior, the perfect lover – the only stain on his soul is his love for Loki, and he is so starry-eyed that he insists that this too is a virtue.

It is making Loki sick. Thor’s devotion is so complete, so unwavering that he feels like he is drowning in it. He is not the person he sees reflected in Thor’s eyes, the lost sheep returned, loved and cherished and valued above all others. How can he be? He may no longer feel he must live up to Thor, but now he feels the weight of Thor’s faith and he hates it, hates himself for hating it, hates Thor for doing it to him and hates most of all Thor’s gentle touches and constant searching for permission.

“I am sick of you being gentle with me,” Loki spits, a half-truth at best. “You think me weak and feeble – you think I will break under your hands like those mortals you loved so dearly -”

“Loki!” Thor interrupts, dismayed. “This is an old argument and one you know has no truth in it. You do not need to lie to me. I want to know what is in your heart, that you would ask this of me.”

Oh yes, Loki thinks savagely, it is all what _I_ would ask of _you_ , and not how _you_ can help _me_ ; that is what it always comes to down, what _you_ want, and I am left to scramble after you –

“I want to hear the worst you have to say of me,” Loki says, struggling not to lie, fighting the flood of bitter anger that is swamping him. “I need you to punish me for what I do – for what I am – I need the worst of you, so I can believe you when you say after that you still love me.”

He needs to do _something_ with the hate and fear that roils within him, that lies heavy and dark on the love he bears for Thor, like an oil slick on the ocean. He cannot be free of it, and so he must use it, must have it lanced like a rotting wound, lest it poison him again. There is no-one he can trust with it as he can trust Thor; there is no-one he would let hurt him, even in play, save for Thor.

“I do not want to hurt you, nor be cruel to you,” Thor says, looking uncertain. “But if it is what you want…”

“It is,” Loki hisses, hating him for being careful, for being good and noble and kind, but most of all for making Loki explain. Can he not simply do it because Loki has asked? Why is his understanding more important than Loki’s wants? The venom rolls beneath his skin and he has a thousand pointed insults breeding on his tongue as Thor regards him, his stupid honest face creased in thought.

“I would not want to truly take you against your will,” Thor says at last, “so we will need some word, some sign to exchange before and after such…games as these.”

Loki exhales slowly, lets relief temper some of the bitterness. “Yes,” he says, “yes, of course, Thor. What would you like the words to be?”

Thor looks at him steadily. “The signal I was to begin would be ‘never doubt’, with the reply, ‘that I love you’ serving as your agreement, and you would say the same to me when you wanted the game to end.”

Loki freezes. That is almost too close to the bone, a reminder of the old times between them, both good and bad, for he has not used those words since the failed coronation. He turns them over his mind, feels the heavy weight and bittersweetness of the memory, and watches Thor watch him. Sometimes, even now, Thor has the capacity to surprise him with his sharpness; he has the uncomfortable feeling Thor sees more of him than he ever meant to show in suggesting this little game.

“Yes,” he says, the simplicity of the answer an offering of peace and understanding between them, and Thor nods and lets Loki turn the conversation to other things without asking anything more.

Loki walks on pins and needles for a week, waiting, but Thor does nothing unusual: their couplings are frequent, pleasurable and altogether too sweet, and Loki may scream or stab someone if nothing changes. Has Thor changed his mind? Decided he is not willing to do this for Loki and, like the fool that he is, thought that if he simply lets it lie Loki will forget about it?

Loki snarls and sneers and verbally flays all in his path for days, until the servants quake at the sight of him and none of Thor’s ignorant, puerile friends will come near him. He steers well clear of Odin and Frigga, but Thor bears the brunt of his foul moods as he lashes out at him, with words and fists and then projectiles ( _mostly_ blunt), but all the disgusting brute does is take it with a smile, and then a flat stare, and then he simply walks away, leaving Loki clawing at the walls.

Loki is lurking in the one of the deserted balconies overlooking the great hall as Odin drones on to yet another delegation of worthless peasants, and contemplating a trip to Muspelheim, where he is as yet unknown and therefore potentially trusted, when he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder and twists to look into Thor’s unsmiling face.

“And what do _you_ want?” he snaps, lying through his teeth; “I am in no mood to pander to your ridiculous sentiments today. Leave me be.”

Thor stares at him, mouth fixed in a firm line, eyes burning, and Loki feels a flicker of fear. Is this it – has he finally pushed too far?

“Never doubt,” Thor says quietly and it takes Loki a moment to recognise the phrase. The fear in his gut turns to a shudder of excitement and he licks his lips in anticipation.

“That I love you,” he replies, and Thor nods, his stern expression never wavering. He tightens his grip on Loki’s shoulder and pulls him forward without another word. Loki fights, purely for the joy of it, spitting curses and every foul insult he can think of, but to no avail as Thor simply clamps his free hand over Loki’s mouth and bodily drags him down the corridor and into one of Asgard’s many empty guestrooms.

He shoves Loki inside and slams the door shut behind them, letting the heavy lock drop into place as Loki rights himself and turns on him.

“You -” Loki starts, but Thor is on him again in a heartbeat, hand once again clamped tight over Loki’s mouth.

“Be silent,” Thor growls, low and threatening. “I grow tired of your empty yapping.”

Loki’s heart sings. He bites down on Thor’s fingers, hard enough to draw blood, ripping open his own lip in the process. Thor yanks his hand away with a curse and Loki spits in his face.

“I shower you with love and affection, and this is the thanks I receive?” Thor says angrily, wiping the bloodied spittle from his cheek. “I ought to beat some sense into you.”

“Better men and beasts than you have tried,” Loki sneers. “I am not afraid of you, Odinson.”

“You should be,” Thor says darkly and takes a step forward, crowding Loki back. “I know what you really want, _Laufeyson_. I know what you deserve.”

Loki flinches at the hated name, and genuine pain spikes in his chest. He doesn’t realise he’s turned his face aside until Thor grabs his jaw and forces him to meet his eyes.

“You’re only here because I want you here,” Thor says, face twisted in anger. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be locked in the dungeons or exiled to the frozen wastes where your own kind would cut your throat as soon as they saw you. Everything you have comes from me. And you dare treat me with such disrespect? You should be on your knees worshipping me.”

Loki makes a small involuntary noise, tears pricking at his eyes, because it’s true and he knows it. If Thor were ever to turn from him, he would be cast out in a heartbeat, left to wander the realms alone and mistrusted, pointed out to all and sundry as the lying, treasonous bastard who was once called a Prince of Asgard. It would break him to truly fall from Thor’s favour, for without Thor, he would be nothing. He knows this and he hates it and he will never, ever admit any of it.

“Never,” he snarls, blinking away the tears. “I will never bow down to you.”

“Then I will make you,” Thor snarls back and he grabs Loki by the throat and throws him to the floor, and if he is careful to do so where there is a thick, padded rug, one hand twisting into Loki’s hair to yank his head back but also to make sure his head does not strike against the ground, well, Loki will let it go. Thor is doing remarkably well so far.

It has been an age since they last fought and Loki had forgotten how strong Thor truly is. He bucks and kicks and lashes out blindly, not holding anything back, revelling in the freedom to take his anger and frustration out on his brother’s huge frame, but Thor simply soaks up his attacks and forces him down, arm muscles bulging as he manhandles  the thrashing Loki. It is far too easy for him to roll Loki over and pin him face down to the floor, and Loki howls in fury as Thor settles himself over his prone frame and yanks Loki’s leggings down to expose his ass.

There’s a dull clank as Thor removes his belt and lets it fall to the floor, and then the distinctive sound of Thor unlacing his breeches and stroking his cock. He leans over Loki and grinds against his exposed ass, his hard cock sliding along the crease, and Loki spits obscenities at him until Thor growls a warning, the head of his cock bumping against Loki’s tight hole.

 “No,” Loki curses, struggling furiously, “You wouldn’t _dare_.” Thor hesitates, just for a second, and Loki nearly growls in frustration. Don’t spoil it now _,_ he wants to snap, but instead he twists his face over his shoulder so he can lock eyes with Thor and gives the tiniest nod he can manage.

Thor shoves his face to the floor and Loki’s grin is so wide that the wound on his lip reopens and he can taste the coppery tang of his own blood as Thor resumes ripping his leggings to shreds. He yanks Loki’s legs apart to better expose his hole and spits on his own fingers before shoving the first one in. Loki screams, more in shock than pain, for although it does hurt, in truth he is still a little loose from their gentle, languid loving this morning, and of course Thor knows this.

Still, it burns, and more so when Thor adds a second and third finger too quickly, well before Loki can adjust, and the damnable tears are back again as Loki cries out and tries not to push back into the delicious stretch.

“I hate you,” he forces out, ignoring how the last syllable keeps stretching out into a moan as Thor drives his fingers in and out, “I hate you, Thor, I will always hate you -”

“Liar,” Thor spits at him and he pulls his fingers out, leaving Loki gasping, only to line his spit-slicked cock up with Loki’s clenching hole and thrust into him with one brutal stroke.

Loki would scream again and mean it this time, but Thor’s huge cock has forced the breath from his lungs and so he scrabbles at the floor instead, trying to remember how to breathe as Thor’s cock spreads him impossibly wide, the burn almost agonising for a moment before it subsides into the fine-edged pain that Loki loves so dearly.

Thor gives him no time, no mercy, but instead slides out and then pounds back in and Loki howls, trying to arch against Thor’s powerful body but barely able to move under Thor’s great weight. His cock is aching and dripping wet where it is pressed uncomfortably between his belly and the rug, and the friction he gets as Thor fucks him is both too little and too much for his over-sensitive flesh.

“You love this,” Thor snarls at him at he fucks into him, brutal thrusts pushing Loki across the floor, the rug bunching beneath them. “Being used like the whore you are. This is all you are good for, little brother: taking my cock and moaning like a bitch in heat.”

“Yes,” Loki moans, “yes, Thor, _please_ , I want -”

“I do not care what you want,” Thor interrupts with a punishing slam of his hips. “You will get what I give you and nothing else.”

Loki could cry with happiness and as Thor’s fat cock drags roughly over his prostate he does, gives himself over to loud sobs and lets the tears cascade down his face as Thor fucks him like an animal, taking his pleasure heedless of Loki’s cries and pleas. Thor is wrecking him and he welcomes it, lets the broken shards inside of him shatter, lets Thor grind them to dust, where their sharp edges and jagged tears cannot hurt him any longer, where he is nothing but Thor’s, to be used and punished and free, blissfully free, his world nothing but the push and pull of Thor’s cock within him and his own desperate need for release.

Thor winds one hand tightly in his hair and jerks his head back, forcing his chin up, and the extra frisson of pain has Loki yelping in delight.

“That’s it,” Thor growls, “take it, take it all, let me hear how much you love it,” and Loki obliges by wailing, a mixture of great, racking sobs and frenzied shrieks as Thor pounds into him and it’s so intense that Loki can feel his orgasm rising already, his body clenching as the coil of pleasure winds ever tighter and his wailing reaches a fever pitch as he breaks and shatters and comes, sheer physical release shaking through him as his cock leaps and soaks his own belly with warm seed.

Loki’s release seems to loosen the last of Thor’s restraint, and he is panting harshly now, moves his hands from where they have been pinning Loki in place to curl around his hips and lift them up slightly so Thor can fuck him even harder. Loki can do nothing but lay there, spent and blissful, as Thor grunts and groans and finally spills, his hot come flooding Loki’s abused hole in a great rush and trickling don Loki’s shaking legs.

Thor pulls out, leaving Loki hollow and empty and broken into a thousand, thousand pieces and for the first time in months he is calm, for everything he is is in Thor’s care and he can trust Thor to keep him safe.

“Never doubt,” he croaks, voice hoarse, and he feels Thor’s hand brush against his cheek.

“That I love you,” Thor murmurs, gentle and loving as he gathers Loki into his arms and covers his bloodied lips with his own. Loki clings to his warmth and basks in his affection, his venom spent and punishment taken, safe and secure in the knowledge that Thor is still here, that even now he loves and cherishes him.

He expects Thor to ask if he is well, to enquire hesitantly and fearfully if that is what Loki wanted, but he does not. Instead he cleans Loki with a soft towel and dresses him in fresh clothes; he must have had this room set up from the start, Loki realises, gratefully drinking the cool water Thor offers him.

It is easy to be grateful in his post-orgasmic haze, to appreciate the love and care his brother lavishes on him, and for once, the bitter tide within him ebbs away as Thor holds him close and tells him how much he loves him, how glad he is that Loki chooses to be by his side, and it is even easier to slip into sleep knowing that even when they bring out the worst in each other, they will always have this closeness to come back to.


	19. Rimming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **23\. Rimming**   
>  Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth, vague AU, established relationship  
> Because Kilts. That is all.

Chris looks around the crowded room until he spots Tom; he’s normally fairly easy to pick out, head and shoulders above the rest, but there’s over a hundred people crammed into the lovingly decorated reception room, and with the bright colours of the table arrangements and wedding guest outfits, it’s hard to work out who’s who. He’s been cornered by an elderly lady in a truly enormous hat who seems to be telling him something at great length, to which Tom, being Tom, is smiling and nodding politely and making no attempt to escape. Chris manages to catch his eye and Tom shrugs a shoulder at him.

Chris isn’t the biggest fan of weddings – oh, he likes the ceremony bit fine, what’s not to like about watching your best mate grinning through his tears as his missus walks down the aisle, and who would say no to a piss-up-stroke-knees-up after; no, it’s this middle bit he’s not keen on, the hanging around after the food, making nice with the grannies and great aunts until the band comes on and he can get properly wrecked.

The fact that Ewan had insisted on embracing his Scottish heritage and putting Chris, as best man, in a matching kilt is another thing he’s not particularly thrilled with, although he will admit privately that having a furry purse strapped to his belt is genuinely useful. At least Tom is here as an usher, to keep him company and do a much better job of being ‘that nice young man’ to Ewan’s hordes of relatives, and it means that Chris isn’t the only bloke in a skirt besides the groom and the four-year-old pageboy.

To be fair, they all looked very smart, lined up together in matching tartan and stockings and garters – hose and blazes, Ewan had insisted, but Chris isn’t blind, they’re bloody knee high socks and garters to go with a pleated skirt with a handbag on the belt – and of course they’d all gone commando, as is tradition. It’s a good laugh but Chris feels a bit daft with the skirt swinging as he moves, uncomfortably aware that if he bends over he’d better be careful Great Aunt Gladys doesn’t get an eyeful she won’t soon forget.

He’d be the first to admit though that Tom is looking _good_. Perhaps it’s his long, shapely legs; perhaps it’s the way his hips sway as he walks; Chris has no idea, but he hasn’t been able to stop staring since he helped Tom into the getup this morning and right now he’s discovering that while the layers of thick, itchy wool may not be the most comfortable thing he’s ever worn, they are doing a great job of hiding his semi as he sits at the top table and stares at the tantalising flash of thigh every time Tom crosses and uncrosses his legs.

Right. Enough bloody socialising. Chris plasters on his best smile and heads purposefully towards Tom, clapping a hand on his shoulder and interrupting the old woman’s endless story with an apology and a tissue-thin excuse for dragging Tom away.

“Chris, what – what are you doing, no, we – we have to mingle, and -” Tom laughs, batting ineffectually at Chris as he tugs him out the function room and down the corridor to the disabled toilet.

“The meal is over, the speeches are done and the evening do doesn’t start for another hour,” Chris says as he bundles them inside and locked the door. “Ewan is pissed as a rat and doing the rounds with Eve. I can have you to myself for a bit and no-one will notice.”

“Oh, and what do you want to do with me, hmm?” Tom asks, flushed and happy, sliding a hand over Chris’s chest and smirking at him. This thing between them – it’s not exactly new, but it still gives Chris a thrill just to be able to reach out and touch him, to look at him and think - that’s _my_ Tom, and right now, all he wants is to get his hands and mouth on that delicious body.

“This,” Chris says with a bigger smirk, and he turns a suddenly squawking Tom around and bends him over so he can flip up his kilt and expose his bare ass. Tom yelps and throws his hands out against the wall to steady himself, legs spread wide, and Chris can finally, _finally_ cup his pert buttocks in his hands and give them the squeezing he’s been thinking about all day.

Tom throws him a mock-glare over his shoulder. “So it’s the kilt that gets you going then?”

“It’s your arse, mate,” Chris replies absently, admiring how Tom’s knee high black woollen socks, folded down over the garter, seem to accentuate his long lean thighs, and how good his arse looks with the skirt bunched up around his waist. He squeezes Tom again and then spreads his cheeks so he can kiss his pink hole.

“Hey,” Tom says, voice hitching, “Hang on, Chris, it’s not that I don’t fancy the thought but we can’t – we’ve got to go back out there and dance and I’ve not got any boxers – tonight, yeah? The kilts don’t have to go back ‘til Monday -”

“I’m not going to shag you in the toilets,” Chris says, laughing, “not when we’ve got a perfectly good hotel room for the end of the night.”

“Oh, right,” Tom says and he sounds torn between relief and sneaking disappointment; Chris leans to the side and grins at Tom’s thickening cock, just stirring amidst the kilt folds.

“I’m just going to eat you out and jerk you off and then we’ll go and mingle,” Chris says conversationally and he lets Tom splutter for a few seconds before getting down on his knees and nipping him playfully on the bum.

“Oh, god,” Tom says, leaning his forehead against the wall. “Chris, this is a terrible idea -” but the rest of the sentence turns to a breathy sigh as Chris runs the flat of his tongue along his crease and over his hole. Chris does it again and again, and then he stops, and sits back on his heels and waits.

“Don’t stop now!” Tom hisses, wriggling his arse impatiently, and Chris smacks him lightly before getting back to work with a smile. He circles Tom’s tight pucker with his tounge, just teasing, until Tom whines and pushes back against him, and then, just to be a bastard, he turns his head and begins to such a love-bite into the meat of Tom’s arse, rubbing his thumb gently over the smooth, soft patch of skin between Tom’s arsehole and his balls.

“Chris – Chris, please,” Tom says, his voice muffled where his face is buried in his forearm, bracing himself against the wall. That’s the magic word as far as Chris is concerned and he shifts his focus without warning, spreading Tom’s quivering cheeks wide and spearing his tongue into his clenching hole, wet and sloppy and fast, and then, just as suddenly, stops and resumes his gentle licking and circling.

Eating a guy out wasn’t something he was ever much into, before Tom, but he loves it now because Tom loves it so much, making a wonderful variety of sighs and squeaks Chris never hears otherwise, his whole body trembling as Chris licks over and into him, steadfastly ignoring the tantalising swaying balls and no doubt hard and wet cock well within reach.

It’s strange, but he finds this more intimate than anything else they do, even the face to face fucking; perhaps because it so definitely for Tom’s pleasure, or because it’s not something he’s done much with anyone else. Either way, he’s up for it now, and he welcomes the taste and smell of the most private part of his lover, and smiles to himself every time Tom yelps and pushes harder against his face.

“Oh, god,” Tom moans above him, trying so hard to be quiet and failing, as Chris gets him good and wet and hungry for it. He squeezes affectionately at Tom’s flexing ass and then trails his hands lower, gently fondling his heavy balls and ghosting over his thighs, enjoying the whipcord tension building in Tom’s body, the way he’s rocking ever so slightly on his heels, almost without realising it, pushing against Chris’s invading tongue and the forward into the bunched, rough fabric of the kilt.

He can’t see it, but he knows Tom well enough to picture him biting his lip, his face flushed, the blush staining his cheeks and down his elegant throat, and he knows exactly what Tom looks like as he listens to his shallow breathing and muffled cries. He looks gorgeous, he always does.

Chris knows, from appreciative experience, that given enough time and something decent to grind against, Tom can come from this, from just the barest bit of friction on his cock and Chris’s tongue in his ass. He loves that, loves taking Tom apart like that, but it’s better done on a bed and not with him kneeling on a cold tiled floor, and unfortunately, they really don’t have the time right now.

So he gives into temptation, and slides his hand over Tom’s thigh and round so he can grip Tom’s cock and stroke it in time with the movements of his tongue. Tom makes a high, choked sound and quivers against Chris, a whole body shudder, and Chris knows he’s close. Looks like he’s not the only one who’s been hiding their interest all morning. Tom’s cockhead is slippery and wet with pre-come, and he rubs his palm over it, gets his hand that little bit slick, and sets to it, jerking Tom hard and fast as he eats him out, sloppy and messy.

“Oh, god,” Tom moans again, hips moving faster, “Chris, god, don’t stop, please, _Chris_ …” Chris moves with him, lets him thrust up and into his hand, keeping his face pressed to Tom’s arse and feels it build in him, hears his words break into inarticulate sounds until he moans, low and sweet, and comes all over Chris’s hand.

Chris gives him a last squeeze and gets to his feet, rubbing at his sore knees with his clean hand and licking at the other, cleaning up the worst of the mess and savouring the taste of Tom as he looks at him. Tom looks stunning, slumped against the wall, the kilt bunched around him like a schoolgirl’s skirt and all Chris wants to do is fuck him, or maybe, flip him over and start all over again, bury his head under the fabric and suck Tom back to hardness, or maybe -

Tom struggles to his feet and turns to look at Chris. His pupils are blown and his hair is mussed; he looks totally fucked and Chris loves it, but is also suddenly, totally focused on where his own cock is tenting the rough fabric of the kilt and in desperate need of attention.

“Right,” Tom says, pushing away from the wall and fumbling at Chris’s kilt, “it’s payback time,” and he doesn’t even try for subtlety, just grabbing Chris’s aching hard-on with both hands and pumping him steadily, kissing and nipping at Chris’s neck as his head falls back, and well, at this point he doesn’t need much.

He’s never been into anyone the way he is with Tom, and it shows, as he clutches at Tom’s arms and then wraps his arms around him, pulling him even closer as his orgasm starts to build, coiling up from his toes and flickering along his spine and he grunts and shifts his grip to Tom’s perfect, luscious arse.

“You have such a kink,” Tom laughs at him, and he does, he really does, and it’s called Tom, and he bucks up into Tom’s clever hands as the pleasure winds tighter and tighter until it crests and breaks and he comes with a long sigh that starts with ‘To’ and ends in ‘om’.

Chris gasps for breath and as soon as he can, he covers Tom’s satisfied smile with his own lips, kissing him lazily as he rides out his aftershocks, their bodies pressed tightly together as their breath mingles. He doesn’t want to jinx it, and he’s definitely not said anything yet, but he’s feeling pretty sure that Tom’s the one, and he reckons Tom’s thinking the same.

“I do love you in that kilt,” he says once they break apart, and it’s the closest he’s gotten yet.

“Yeah?” Tom says, smiling and ducking his head a little. “Me too, Chris,” and well, they’re nearly there, grinning at each other like idiots, leaning in for a kiss that’s now more sweet than sensual. But then practicality rears its sticky head and they have to break apart to wash their hands and sort out each other’s ever so slightly stained kilts.

“Time to get pissed and dance like a loon,” Tom says when they’re done, looking thrilled at the prospect.

“Save the last dance for me?” Chris asks, because he’s a sap at heart, and well, it’s a wedding after all. Tom beams at him.

“Of course,” he says and they’re tumbling out the door, arms around each other’s shoulders, ready for a great night, and by the time Monday rolls around Chris is very, very grateful that he took out the extra cleaning insurance on the damn kilts and not even a little bit sorry that Tom is the one taking them back to the hire shop.


	20. Explaining their relationship to a disapproving third party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 11. Explaining their (unconventional/kinky/incestuous) relationship to a disapproving third party (roommate, coworker, family member, spouse, pet, etc.) 
> 
> Warlord Thor/Jotun Loki, intersex Loki, sexual slavery, dancer Loki
> 
> So...this was supposed to be based on [a prompt by an anon, featuring dark!Thor and dancer!Loki](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/61954023361), but, well, I failed that bit. So have this instead, based on [Marty's stunning dancing jotun Loki](http://marty-mc.tumblr.com/post/43374739265/i-said-id-draw-belly-dancing-loki-and-so-i-did) and [kisu-no-hi's NSFW wartrophy jotun Loki](http://kisu-no-hi.tumblr.com/post/35864012793/who-doesnt-like-some-wartrophy-loki).

Loki stands before the mirror and carefully winds the seventh and final veil around his head. It is quite a challenge to secure the gauzy fabric around his horns: too tight, and he will not be able to slide it free during the performance; too loose, and it will slide down his hair and reveal his face too soon.

There. Perfect. He checks his appearance critically, adjusting the folds of the shimmering crimson and emerald silks wrapped around him and floating behind him, practising holding out his arms and legs, pointing his toes and sweeping his hands through the air, looking for where the light best catches his intricate golden jewellery. The silks and gems shift as he moves, chiming and rustling, but that cannot be helped. It is a dance, after all.

“You deserve more than this.” There is deep bitterness in the low voice and Loki stills, lets his hands fall to his side.

“I have always deserved more than what has been given to me,” he says to his reflection, and waits one heartbeat, two, before a face joins him in the mirror.

“A Prince of Jotunheim reduced to dancing for an Aesir brute,” Angrboða hisses, angry as always, face hidden in the hood of the dark cloak. “I do not how you can stand it. Twirling and prancing before him and his oafish court, let alone the rest -”

“We all do as we must now,” Loki chides.

“It is sickening,” Angrboða says, glaring at Loki’s jewelled headdress. “We should have killed every Aesir when we had the chance. We should have proclaimed you King and refused the surrender, kept fighting -”

“The only reason I still live is that I had the sense to flee before the Allfather broke through to slaughter my father,” Loki says calmly. This is an old argument and one he is long tired of. “Indeed, I should thank the Aesir. Since the Odinson killed both my brothers, I am closer now to the throne than I ever was when Laufey lived.”

“A throne that Odin has given to his son as a toy to amuse himself with before he takes the high seat in Asgard,” Angrboða says bitterly. “They think you one of Laufey’s courtesans, not his only living heir. They are so ignorant they do not even recognise your markings, nor the wedding jewellery you wear to please them.”

“Their ignorance suits me well,” Loki says, striving to keep his tone neutral. “What is it you want, Angrboða? You know I must perform in but a moment.”

“Do not do this,” Angrboða pleads. “Come with me. I can smuggle you out of the palace, to the northlands; there are gatherings there, of those who would not live under the Aesir yoke. They would welcome Laufey’s son with open arms.”

Loki makes a play of considering it. But fighting a desperate guerrilla war against the power of Asgard, without the Casket of Ancient Winters, his only followers the handful of warriors too foolhardy to see that Jotunheim must have time if she is to rebuild and regroup? Living in the wilderness of the northern territories, hiding from Asgard’s Gatekeeper and scrounging for food and shelter in the wastelands? No, it will not do.

“I am sorry, Angrboða,” he lies, pulling up an expression of deep sorrow. “But my place is here, where I may learn some small things of value from the careless words of our conquerors. I must wait for an advantage to come my way and when it does, you may rest assured that I will grasp it with both hands.”

“But must you dance for the Aesir Prince?” Angrboða says, looming over his shoulder, closer than Loki would like. “Must you be his bedmate? The thought of his hands on you is vile beyond bearing.”

“Would you refuse him?” Loki says, whirling round, his fine jewellery clattering against his horns. “If he asked – or when he simply takes? What would _you_ do, if you were alone and unprotected in the midst of your enemies?”

“Fight,” Angrboða snarls and then is gone, vanishing into the shadows. Loki sighs in exasperation and resumes checking his appearance in the mirror. Yes, Angrboða would fight. Angrboða probably will, in the near future, with the desperate rebels so eager to have Loki sacrifice himself with them.

Angrboða will die. Loki watched as Odin drove a spear through Laufey’s throat: a man half his father’s size and twice his age and he still brought Laufey down, though he lost an eye in the process. Thor had even less trouble ridding the world of Loki’s idiot brothers, laughing with joy as he beat the pair of them to death with his hammer, and that was before he turned the lightning loose on what remained of the palace’s guards. Loki had fled before either could look to the shadow of the throne and complete the task of wiping out Jotunheim’s royal family.

He had hidden in the consort’s rooms, long abandoned, and stripped himself of every visible symbol of rank. When they found him, he wore little more than a jewelled belt and his rings, and it had been all too easy to convince the blood-soaked soldiers a jötunn so small and strange-looking was no warrior, but only a pleasure-slave. He had thought to cut their throats while they tried to take him, but none had attempted it; instead, he had been dragged before Odin and his son and added to the pile of treasure they were distributing between their men.

Thor had claimed him the moment he had laid eyes on him, and Loki was a common enough jötnar name that none had thought such a frail and pretty thing could be the son and brother of those he had just slain.

But this is not the time to dwell on such things.

He can hear the beat of the music from the great hall starting up, a slow, rhythmic sound that vibrates though the stones of the palace. It is a dirge, a song for the dead, but the Aesir neither know nor care: to them, it is stately and pleasing and they ask for it often, something many of the jötunn who remain as servants like to think of as an omen.

Loki thinks it proves only that the Aesir have strange tastes, but no matter. It is the signal that the feasting and drinking is done, and it is almost time for the Lord to leave his hall. It is also his cue, and so with one last check, he sweeps regally out of his dressing room and down the corridor to the heavy doors of the hall. There he waits, head held high, until the music pauses and the doors swing open.

Every head in the hall turns to look at him as he glides down the centre of the room in perfect silence. He can see the hungry expressions of the Aesir in his peripheral vision, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the tall figure seated on his father’s throne, already leaning forward in anticipation.

Loki stands before Thor Odinson, Prince of Asgard and Lord of Jotunheim, and bows low, bending himself almost in half, dipping his horns until they brush the floor. He straightens slowly and meets Thor’s broad smile with a smirk half-hidden behind his veil.

The music starts again, still with a rhythmic, heavy drumbeat, but now a little faster, a song for dancing, not for mourning. Loki raises his arms high above his head and lets his hips sway to the beat, tapping out the rise and fall with one belled foot, moving in a slow circle that has his silken drapes fluttering out behind him.

The first time, he had told Thor that this was an ancient jötnar wedding tradition, a dance that virgins performed for their new lord and master before the consummation; utter rubbish, and Loki had made it up as he went along, relying on his own innate skills as a performer and Thor’s open, obvious reactions to create a pattern of movements that would please him. Had Loki known it would please him so much that he would order Loki to dance for him every night, he might have put a little more thought into his routine and, frankly, a lot less effort.

Ah, well. Loki dances fluidly and gracefully, his body undulating to the music, and as the tempo quickens he raises his hands to his head and unwinds the first veil, revealing his curling horns and deliberately gentle half-smile, and then exposing his headdress, the one genuine piece of this faux-marriage act. He lets the emerald silk slide through his fingers as he twirls and then lets it go, careful to ensure it sails through the air to land at Thor’s feet.

Thor is quick to pick to it up and unabashed in pressing it to his face to inhale Loki’s perfume. Loki continues to dance, long limbs describing an elegant arc through the air, and as the beat changes he loosens the second scarf, unwinding it from around his chest to bare more blue skin and raised markings. Then it is time for the third and the fourth, and now Loki is bare chested and bare armed, his heavy bangles sliding along his wrists and intricate necklace jangling as it rises and falls with his chest. He makes a show of teasing at his nipple ring, sliding the silk scarves over his body before letting them fall, the rumpled pile of green bright against the black stone throne.

The music is quicker now and Loki moves faster, rising up on to one foot to twirl, tossing his head back so his long plait streams behind him, keeping his audience’s attention on his hips as he works at the last three scarves. He can feel the crowd’s eyes moving across his skin, lustful and envious, and it thrills him. Here, he is no runt, no third-born useless son in the shadow of his brothers; here, surrounded by Aesir, he is beautiful and wonderful and a thing of rare value and worth, guarded jealously by the greatest of their kind.

He frees the two burgundy scarves from where they are attached to the wide, jewelled belt that sits on his hips, and they unfurl from where they were twisted around his legs. He dances with them, has them ripple out behind him like Thor’s own crimson cloak, drapes them over his arms and slides them over his hips. Red is the colour of life, the colour of desire for the Aesir, and of course, the colour most favoured by their warrior Prince, and Loki brings the soft fabric to his mouth and holds it in his teeth as he sinks to his knees to writhe before the throne.

Thor leans forward further still, his hot gaze fixed on Loki, and he still has that first veil gripped in his hand as Loki casts the fifth and sixth at his feet. Now, all he wears is his jewellery, his low slung belt and one thin, almost translucent swathe of silk that drapes around him as a skirt, slit up the sides to help him move.

The music is frantic now, almost too fast to follow, and Loki throws himself into to it, whirls and leaps and writhes with everything he has, snatching up the pile of scarves and scattering them anew as he moves, coming to an abrupt halt as the music peaks and they rain down around him.

“Only he who owns me now may lift my last veil,” he says in the ringing silence, voice low but pitched to carry. “I am yours to command, my Lord.”

More lies, more pretty nonsense to please his so-called conqueror, but as Thor stands, trousers pulled tight over his crotch, his desire obvious for all in the hall to see, Loki feels not shame but the sweetness of victory. The mighty Thor, slayer of giants and the second most powerful being in all the realms has eyes only for Loki as he hooks a finger into his belt and pulls him close.

“My Loki,” he says, voice thick with lust, and Loki lets him sweep him up in those powerful arms and carry him to their bedchamber, the crowd in the hall vocal in their approval of Thor and Loki’s imminent coupling.

Loki cannot fathom why Thor has never taken him in the hall, made his claim public and share some small part of his glory with his followers, but the Aesir have strange notions of privacy. It is a shame, for he would quite like for all to see Thor Odinson worshipping his flesh, to see the want in their faces as Thor and Thor alone finds his satisfaction in Loki’s body, but it does not matter. There is a joy in being deemed too precious to share, too.

No matter how times Thor sees Loki dance, it always has the same effect on him, and he is near-frantic as he throws Loki on the bed and yanks his own armour off. The dance may be over, but the performance is not, and Loki opens his eyes as wide as he can and bites his lip, drawing his legs up in an imitation of shyness that not so coincidentally has his gauzy skirt pooling over his lap and exposing his thighs.

“What do you wish of me, my Lord?” he says coyly, letting his gaze drop from Thor’s face. That it alights on his gloriously thick cock is, of course, yet another coincidence.

“On your knees,” Thor grunts, and Loki barely has time to comply before Thor is on him, pushing the gauzy skirt up and over his hips where it bunches in the small of his back. There is no patience, no gentleness in his warrior lord, and Loki manages only one short, sharp breath before he is impaled on Thor’s huge cock. Loki wails, a high, undulating cry that is partly for Thor’s benefit and partly for his own as Thor sinks into his wet cunt.

Thor is half-standing, half-sitting and he grabs Loki by the hip to keep him in place as he begins to fuck in to him, rough and hard, and when Loki tosses his head back Thor grabs him by one of his spiralled horns and holds him there as he pounds into him, his deep grunts a counterpoint to the slapping of their bodies. Loki cannot move, can only concentrate on holding himself up as Thor slams into him, and he moans and sobs as his cock thickens and rises with the delicious feeling of being so thoroughly fucked.

A brute, Angrboða had called him, and right now Thor truly is, caring for nothing except chasing his own pleasure, brutally using Loki’s body as he chases his own pleasure, and Loki loves it, loves that Thor is so desperate for him, that he is so inflamed merely by watching Loki dance, and that he is so easily reduced to this mindless, rutting beast. Thor’s pace falters and his hips stutter as he approaches his climax, and Loki wails all the louder for him as he comes, shouting Loki’s name as he spills inside him.

Thor pulls out, panting hard, but he is not done. He releases his bruising grip and kisses Loki’s back, working his way along Loki’s bowed spine as he shifts around him, until he reaches Loki’s upturned face and kisses him with surprising gentleness. It is Loki who slides his tongue between Thor’s lip and Loki who moans in the back of his throat as the kiss deepens; now that Thor’s initial lust spent, he is a different beast entirely, and when Loki pulls away, Thor smiles a foolish, hopeless smile and cups his cheek fondly.

“You are so beautiful,” Thor tells him, eyes bright.

“I know,” Loki sniffs, tossing his head so that Thor must release him, and Thor laughs as Loki rolls onto his back and makes a point of spreading his legs for Thor to kneel between them.

This is what Angrboða does not understand: Loki would not give Thor up, not for Jotunheim’s crown and possibly not even for Asgard’s – although he would have to consider it carefully. For Thor, crown prince and conqueror, fancies himself not Loki’s master but his lover, and though he is all too easily carried away by his lust, given but a few moments to spend and ease his desire, he reveals himself to be utterly smitten.

Loki waits impatiently as Thor moves back down the bed so he can loosen Loki’s belt and tug it away, leaving Loki clothed only in his shimmering jewellery and headdress. Thor settles between his spread thighs and takes a long time to appreciate the view, his eyes and hands skimming along Loki’s body, tracing his markings and hovering over his exposed cunt, now trickling Thor’s creamy seed, and his hard and aching cock, both flushed a deep purple.

“Beautiful,” Thor murmurs again, flashing Loki a wide smile, playing idly with Loki’s ankle bangles. “The greatest treasure I have ever won.”

Loki would disagree with who exactly has won what, but he keeps such thoughts to himself as Thor leans forward to nuzzle at his inner thigh, his peculiarly bristled cheek a pleasant burn against Loki’s skin. Thor’s breath is hot against him and his touch hotter still; it is a fire that Loki is all too keen to ignite, and he lifts his hips, wriggling his groin against Thor’s face. There will be time for a more leisurely exploration later: now, he is just as keen as Thor was a moment ago, and he demands the same satisfaction.

Thor is openly pleased with Loki’s blatant arousal, and, unlike Loki, not over-fond of teasing. He abandons his attempts at foreplay and grasps Loki’s cock firmly with one hand as he slides two fingers of the other into Loki’s sopping wet cunt. Loki sighs happily as Thor begins to stroke his cock and work his fingers in and out of Loki’s slick folds in a steady, even rhythm, his eyes fluttering shut as he shudders at the mingled pleasure rising in his cock and cunt.

They have a long night ahead of them, yet again, and so Loki does not try to hold on, but instead gives himself over to the intensity of the sensations, entirely focused on the sweet slide of Thor’s fingers and the hot, tight grip of his hand. It is all too easy to buck up into Thor’s palm and then grind down against his hand, and Thor lets Loki guide him, increases his movements to match Loki’s pace as Loki arches and moans, fucking into Thor’s hands with abandon as his orgasm winds tighter and tighter, the blood pounding through his body as the white-hot tide rises and rises, building and building until Loki thinks he will break and then he does, a long, needy whine escaping his throat as his body shakes with a sudden, sharp orgasm and his seed splatters against Thor’s clenched fist as his cunt soaks his other hand.

Loki collapses into a languid position as Thor withdraws his hands and wipes them clean on a corner of the bedding. Their first couplings are always this fast, but this is only the beginning of the night, and he will take the chance to catch his breath before Thor wants to begin again. Thor smiles smugly as he eyes Loki’s prone form, but Loki does not mind it too much. He has found a smug Thor more malleable than a bated one, and since his early efforts to instil some kind of insecurity in him had amounted to naught in the face of Thor’s arrogance, he is quite happy to let Thor preen over his skills in bed.

Case in point: as Loki lies still, keeping his face slack with bliss, Thor rises to his feet and, unbidden, fetches a plate of ripe and juicy fruit and brings it to Loki’s side. Thor drinks thirstily from the pitcher of wine as Loki rouses and begins to pick at the fruit. That Thor knows him well enough to offer him fruit and not a drink is a satisfaction in itself; that he makes these small gestures towards Loki’s comfort despite thinking him a pleasure-slave is a marvel, and part of the rationale behind Loki’s willingness to dance and submit – and his other, more difficult choices.

“I hear a rumour of trouble in the northlands,” Loki says, filling his mouth with smooth grapes which explode on his tongue. Fruit is a new and novel pleasure in Jotunheim, and one Loki is very fond of; the tart sweetness is all he can taste as he offers up his own kind to the man he should call enemy. “You might wish to try your luck in the hunting grounds.”

“Oh?” Thor says, placing a possessive hand on Loki’s chest as he returns and sprawls out beside him. “And where did you hear this?”

“A little bird told me,” Loki replies carelessly, sucking the juices from his fingers, careful to lathe them with his tongue as he does so. Thor’s eyes darken and within moments he is reaching for Loki again, all thoughts abandoned save the one so obviously stirring. This is how Loki has secured Thor’s trust: not only with his body, but with tiny titbits of information that serve to bolster Thor’s rule of the unhappy jötnar. At this moment, Loki is better served with Thor on the throne than any other, even himself, and he is more than willing to sacrifice a few idiots to keep the Odinson both in power and in his debt.

Poor, foolish Angrboða, Loki thinks, letting his head fall back as Thor’s mouth closes on his nipple, teeth tugging at the golden ring. Why would he ever try and stand against Thor, when with the smallest of smiles he can have him on his knees? With time and effort he will convince Thor to make him his bride; why would he fight to be King of Jotunheim when, with a little patience, he will one day be the true ruler of all the Nine Realms? King, Queen, Consort; the title does not matter. What matters is that he will have real power, and with Thor in his thrall, he will found a dynasty that will last until the end of days.

Loki shudders with pleasure at the thought of it, and Thor takes this for encouragement, kisses him more fiercely, hooks his legs up and slides into him once again. Their fucking is slower and sweeter this second time and Loki locks his legs around Thor’s waist and winds his hands into Thor’s hair, pulling him closer, holding him tighter. Oh, yes, he thinks, and lets the words escape as Thor moans against him, oh, yes. He will have everything he ever wanted, and more, for he has Thor and he will not let him go. 


	21. Voyeurism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **30: Voyeurism**
> 
>  
> 
> Thor/Loki, human AU, late teens (18+), mild dirty talk, webchat, boys in pretty panties, sibling incest
> 
> So I saw this Dutch commercial gif:  
> 
> 
> and it obviously needed a Thorki porn fic. Obviously. Happy Holidays! *nervous laughter*

Thor sits back in his chair and carefully adjusts his webcam  until all that can be seen is his chest. He’s done this often enough that he knows where to sit, and he also knows where to stand so that nothing will be seen apart from his crotch. He’s got about an hour before dinner, and he’s locked his bedroom door; so as long as he’s quiet, no-one will interrupt him while he’s ‘studying’.

He logs into the chat with his usual handle, and starts a few uninspired conversations, exiting out in moments as they all fail to meet his expectations. He’s considering switching to pornhub instead when finally, a new chat pops up with a slim figure, again only visible from the neck down, dressed in a gold and green t-shirt and with a tangle of fine jewellery around his neck.

 _silvertongue69:_ hey

 _putthehammerd0wn:_ hi

 _silvertongue69:_ you like boys in pretty panties? ;)

Wow, that’s…direct. But hell, yes, yes he does, and it’s not like he’s here to actually chat.

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : yeah

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : you wearing some now?

 _silvertongue69_ : of course

The figure on screen pulls off his t-shirt to expose a pale, completely hairless chest. Probably waxes, Thor thinks, getting a good eyeful of the toned body and rosy nipples; the guy strokes himself lazily, with long, white fingers tipped with black nail polish. Nice. As the guy rolls to his knees, Thor realises he’s on a bed and figures he must be using a laptop, and then he stops thinking about such stupid things because the figure unbuttons his skin-tight black jeans and pulls down the zipper to reveal a flash of deep red. Thor leans forward, breath catching, as the figure pulls at his jeans, just enough that Thor can see that he is wearing pretty crimson panties, edged in delicate scalloped lace, his soft cock clearly outlined through the taut fabric.

 _silvertongue69_ : so what do you think?

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : ur gorgeous

 _silvertongue69_ : I know ;)

Thor squeezes the front of his jeans: fuck, yes, this guy is gorgeous and he’s already half-hard, cock swelling at his touch just looking at the guy. He wouldn’t say its like, a fetish or anything, but yeah, he does rather like a pretty guy in lingerie, and he’s hit the fucking jackpot here.

The figure on screen poses for Thor, confident and shameless as he wriggles on the bed, pushing his crotch towards his own camera so Thor can  see his cock stirring, thickening, and he grins to himself. Fucking gold.

 _silvertongue69_ : show you mine if you’ll show me yours?

Thor doesn’t even think twice before scrambling up from his chair, tugging up his t-shirt to reveal his stomach and pushing his jeans down so his erection is clearly visible through his boxers. Thankfully, they’re one of his good pairs: black Calvin Klein, just the right side of snug.

 _silvertongue69_ : nice boxers

 _silvertongue69_ : show me more

Thor hesitates, just for a moment, but fuck it, why not? The guy can’t see his face and is probably on the other side of the world. He lets his t-shirt drop and uses one hand to pull down his boxers while the other lifts out his aching cock.

 _silvertongue69_ : oh wow

 _silvertongue69_ : fuck you’re huge

 _silvertongue69_ : love to have my mouth on that

 _silvertongue69_ : get on my knees for you

 _silvertongue69_ : you’d like that

Thor preens a little; he’s snuck glances in the locker room and he’s pretty damn confident about how good he looks, but it’s nice to hear it from someone else. And fuck, yes, the thought of this pretty stranger on his knees is just amazing. He keeps one hand at the base of his cock as he leans forward to type with the other, holding it up so it’s still clear for the webcam.

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : yeah

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : can I see u?

In response, the stranger pushes his tight jeans down to his knees, so Thor can fully appreciate the sight of his erection straining against the red lacy panties. He poses a little bit, turning to the side and stroking himself through the fabric – cotton, not silk, Thor thinks, mouth dry.

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : ur so beautiful

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : never seen neone as beautiful as u

On the screen, the long-fingered hands make a heart shape over his cock, and then a beckoning motion. _More_ , Thor interprets, and he keeps typing, stumbling over his praise as he watches the stranger slide his fingers under the lace of the panties and slowly, so slowly, slide them down.

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : oh god please ur so hot ive gotta see ur dick pls

 _silvertongue69_ : since you asked so nicely ;)

And finally, there it is: a long, flushed cock, not much smaller than Thor’s own, though more slender, and Thor is so fucking turned on he could cry. The stranger twists and turns to show it off properly, lifting it up so Thor can see him fondling his balls, sliding one finger teasingly down towards his ass before returning to slowly stroking the shaft.

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : ur gorgeous fuckin stunning

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : most gorgeous thing ive eva seen

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : wish i cud fuck u

 _silvertongue69_ : me too

 _silvertongue69_ : want to see me cum?

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : YES

 _silvertongue69_ : fuck your hand for me

 _silvertongue69_ : pretend I’m on my knees now and you’re gonna cum on my face

Fuck. Thor’s hand is already moving on his own cock as he watches the stranger’s dripping cockhead slide between his fingers, watches his hips rock back and forth as he pushes into his own hand. He can’t hear anything with the computer’s volume turned off, but he can see the stranger’s chest heaving and knows he must be panting, maybe moaning, surely a guy who types like this would be a moaner, would sigh and sob and say these filthy things in a broken voice and maybe even scream as he came.

Thor doesn’t even need the added incentive of imagining coming on the guy’s face, splattering his no doubt sinful mouth and wicked eyes: it’s more than enough just to see him jerking off for Thor, his hand moving faster and faster as Thor does the same, and it would be embarrassing, how quickly his orgasm builds, how close he is in a matter of minutes, if it wasn’t for the fact that the stranger is just the same, hand a blur as his cock twitches and creamy white strings of come splash across his hand.

He’s never seen anything hotter in his life, because this is a real person, doing this just for him, not a porn star or a wanking session filmed on a mobile, and he stares at the stranger’s come splattered hand and still weakly pulsing cock and fuck, he’s coming, gritting his teeth to keep quiet as his toes curl and his body arches and he makes his own mess all over his hand.

On screen, the stranger leans away, grabs a tissue and cleans up his dirty hand before wriggling back into his red panties. Even sated as he is, Thor still feels a throb of desire at the sight of his cock tucked into the scrap of underwear, and he stares hungrily, trying to fix the image in his mind for later.  

 _silvertongue69_ : that was good

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : that was amazing

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : wud love to do it again

 _silvertongue69_ : I’m on here most days, just look for my username :)

 _silvertongue69_ : I’ll be thinking of you, big boy

 _putthehammerd0wn_ : me too gorgeous

The chat window vanishes and the guy is gone. Thor signs off too and sorts himself out. He’ll _definitely_ be back on tomorrow…hell, who’s he kidding, he’ll be back after dinner and looking for silvertongue69 again. Christ, what a find!

Thor dicks about on reddit and facebook for the next half an hour, until his mother shouts up; _get your asses down here, lazy boys_! As he comes out of his room he runs smack into his little brother, who quite literally bounces off him, swearing violently but quietly, since their father has Views About Bad Language In His House.

Thor growls a few choice obscenities at him and they continue bickering – quietly – as they make their way downstairs. Ugh, Loki is such a _pain_ , with his pretentious poetry and stupid eyeliner and nail varnish; Mr. I’m-an-artist-not-just-a-dumb-meathead-like-you. He spends all day every day shut up in his dark room, pretending to be deep and serious when actually he’s just a moody brat, the emo twat, and Thor tells him what a prick this makes him at length, whenever he can .

Normally, Loki gives as good as he gets, and a bit better, actually; he’s perfected a fine line in verbally eviscerating Thor and it’s a cornerstone of their relationship. But as Loki follows him to the kitchen table and they tuck into dinner, his bantering falters and then he falls silent, gaze dropping from Thor’s face to his t-shirt. Thor looks down, but it’s just one of his red slogan t-shirts, nothing special, and he scowls irritably.

Loki continues to stare at him the entire time they are eating and Thor glares back. What _now_? But for once, Loki doesn’t pick a fight; he just keeps looking, eyes wide, two spots of colour high on his cheeks, forehead slightly creased, and Thor switches to ignoring him entirely as they clear the table.

As he bends over to stack the dirty plates in the dishwasher, he hears Loki gasp and he rounds on him instantly. Loki has one hand over his mouth and the other , oddly, is fluttering around his belt loops as he stares at where Thor’s red t-shirt has ridden up to expose the waistline of his boxers. He looks at himself, but can’t see anything unusual: it’s just the embroidered CK logo and his own stomach.

“What, Loki? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Loki chokes out, but as Thor looks at him, attention caught by the nervous twitching of his long fingers, it clicks into place with a horrible mental clang.

Black nail polish. Black skinny jeans. Green and gold t-shirt, jewellery, narrow hips, a trail of dark hair leading down from his belly button.

 _ShitshitshitshitSHIT_.

Thor lunges forward, mind a white roaring blank, and yanks at Loki’s jeans, oblivious to Loki’s frantic spitting, and shit, yep, as he gets his hand between the button and Loki’s flat stomach, he can just see a hint of red and the tips of his fingers brush against scalloped lace.

“Get the fuck off me,” Loki hisses, driving an elbow into Thor’s ribs, and Thor backs off, backs away, flattens himself against the cupboards and stares at Loki in mute horror.

“Fuck,” he says stupidly, “fuck, Loki, we -”

“Did nothing,” Loki says, shaking with rage, or terror, or humiliation; Thor doesn’t even know what he is feeling right now, much less his enigmatic brother. “Nothing happened. _Nothing_.”

“It did,” Thor insists. “We have to talk about this!”

“No, we don’t,” Loki says, edging around the table, obviously about to make a break for the door. “I won’t say anything. You won’t say anything. If either of us says anything, we’re _both_ totally screwed. So shut up and fuck off.”

“Wait,” Thor says, moving sideways, filling the doorway with his wide frame and stopping Loki in his tracks. “Let me – Loki, I’m sorry -”

“Shut UP!” Loki shouts and flings himself forward, going for Thor’s ribs against, lean and vicious and Thor grabs for him, and within moments they’re both on the ground tussling and growling like a pair of cats, Loki with his hands yanking at Thor’s hair, with Thor’s forearm locked across Loki’s throat.

“YOU BOYS HAD BETTER NOT BE FIGHTING,” their father roars from the living room and they instantly freeze.

“No, Dad,” they chorus in perfect harmony and thankfully neither of their parents comes to investigate.

Thor stares down at Loki, pinned beneath him, legs hooked tight around Thor’s waist and all but vibrating with nervous energy, and he swallows heavily.

“I meant it, you know,” he says quietly, and Loki blinks teary eyes at him but says nothing. “You are…gorgeous. The most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Loki stares back, chest heaving, and he licks his lips. “I’ve got more panties,” he says after a minute, so quietly that Thor has to lean in even closer just to hear him. “And stockings too. And a pair of heels.”

“Can I see?” Thor asks, just as quietly, and he tilts his hips, just a little, so that he is not so much holding Loki down as pressing himself against him.

Loki shifts his own position, his thighs flexing against Thor’s sides, and he loosens his grip so he can slide his fingers through Thor’s hair. “Say please,” he whispers into Thor’s ear and Thor muffles a groan against his cheek.

“Please, Loki,” he says and Loki smiles.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he murmurs and fuck, Thor can’t drag him up to his bedroom fast enough.

“It’s good to see you two getting on so well again,” his mother says over breakfast a few days later and Thor coughs and splutters and blushes furiously.

“Well, it turns out we have more in common than we thought,” Loki answers calmly, his bare foot rubbing slowly over Thor’s ankle under the table. “Turns out Thor’s a lot more _artistic_ than I ever gave him credit for.”

Thor glares at him, entire body flushed with heat as he remembers posing Loki in his diamante-studded g-string and hold-ups, before bending him nearly in half and fucking him senseless, one hand clamped over Loki’s mouth to muffle his noise.

He’d been right to suspect _silvertongue69_ would be a screamer.

“Come on, brother mine,” Loki says, the picture of innocence. “I’ve got a new game for us to play.”

“Don’t waste your whole day on video games,” their mother warns as they slink out of the kitchen, Thor hot on Loki’s heels. “Make sure you get plenty of exercise!”

“Oh, we will,” Loki laughs as the bedroom door slams shut behind them.


	22. Bondage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4\. Bondage
> 
> Thor/Loki, future canon, dom Loki/sub Thor, whipping
> 
> For [Diana!](http://takemetothedungeons.tumblr.com)

Loki lurks in the shadows of the great golden hall of Asgard and cannot help how his lip curls as he watches Thor dispense justice. The line of petitioners winds around the columns and out through the door; Thor has already been at it for hours and yet the line of peasants too stupid to arbitrate their own affairs never seems to shorten. Loki would turn them all aside and focus his attention on something more befitting of a King than the peaceful resolution of boundary disputes between two men old enough to know better, but Thor sits and listens intently, asking a few, pertinent questions before making a judgement that gives both at least a little of what they wanted.

Oh yes, Thor is a mighty and well-beloved King, and after a few decades squabbling with Loki on Midgard, a surprisingly humble and fair one, but this is no consolation to Loki. There was a time when Loki was a shadow behind the throne, expected to offer advice and smile prettily when it was ignored, and he hated it utterly; but now that he is disinherited, exposed to Asgard as a cuckoo child and no true Odinson, he no longer has a place at all in these proceedings, and he finds it far worse to be a nobody than it ever was to be second best.

But he can watch the King at his ruling in his great hall, as all citizens can, and so he does, but he alone can also see how Thor sighs heavily and rubs at his face, sees the tightly coiled tension in his shoulders and the way his fingers curl and uncurl, and he smiles to himself. Here at least is something that can never be taken from him, for it is between he and Thor alone, and none will ever prise it from either of them.

He flicks his fingers in a tiny spell and Thor jerks, puts his hand to his throat, and his eyes sweep over the room, searching for Loki. Loki meets his wild gaze with a flat stare before turning on his heel and stalking away. He does not need to stay to hear Thor dismiss the petty folk so desperate for him to judge them; he knows that Thor will follow him as quickly as he can.

He slips silently and secretly through the bronzed and shimmering halls of the palace, the endless gold throwing his reflection back at him as a hazy, twisted shimmer, until at last he reaches the depths where there is only stone and water and darkness. This is his space, and he has made himself a home down here, in the room where he was once a prisoner. There are restraints and shackles still, and more besides, but Loki does not fear them.

He is master here, and once he has made his preparations, he awaits his slave with the arrogance of an emperor.

Sure enough, it is only a brief span of time before heavy footsteps announce Thor’s arrival. Asgard’s King enters with his head bent low, stripped of his heavy ceremonial armour, wearing only his simple undertunic and leggings. He has even remembered to remove his boots, and he shivers slightly at the cold stone under his bare feet.

His collar remains though. He is not foolish enough to try and remove it without Loki’s permission, and that Loki has no intention of ever granting.

“You try my patience,” Loki snaps, head held high, and Thor falls to his knees without a word. “You are late today, as you were late yesterday. What am I to think, Thor? That you no longer wish to be mine? That you think yourself above me?

“I am sorry,” Thor says, and he lifts big blue eyes up to Loki, already pricking with tears. “I did not mean to disobey. The business of state -”

 “Does not concern me,” Loki hisses, using the familiar sting of resentment as a goad to his own sharp words. “Shall I turn you out and take another in your place? There must be someone more obedient, more worthy of my attention.”

Thor falls further to the floor, prostrating himself at Loki’s feet.  “Do not forsake me,” Thor says, voice cracking, and Loki eyes him carefully. He is already on the edge, needy and helpless, and yet they have barely begun. The weight of rule is a heavy burden on him with neither their parents nor Loki to stand beside him before the people. “Loki, please -”

“No,” he snarls. “You will not speak. You will only listen. You may be King out there, but here, here you belong to me. You will obey. And you will be _silent_.”

He waits, for a beat and then another, but Thor remains still and quiet, save for the desperate rasp of his breathing.

“Better,” Loki says, and he nudges Thor’s mouth with his boot. “Now strip. Quickly.”

Thor obeys with alacrity, and Loki reconsiders his plans. They had agreed a time for Thor to set aside his duties and join Loki in this hidden dungeon and yet again, Thor has broken their agreement and lingered in the great hall, wearing himself out in dispensing judgement. He had set their time together at this point in Thor’s day deliberately, to force an end to the needless demands on Thor’s attention. To be thwarted in this by Thor himself is not permissible.

While Thor is a good and gracious King, he has of late developed a bad habit of trying to do everything himself; nearly half of the cases he heard today could be have been settled by the magistrates and lawspeakers of the lower courts. The people come to Thor not for justice but merely to be in his presence, and while he all too well understands the impulse, it is exhausting Thor as he struggles to live up to Odin’s name.

This Loki will not stand for. In the midst of the endless to-ing and fro-ing of politics, he can see how Thor longs for simplicity, to know what is right and what is wrong and to be able cleave to the noble path without question. But now he is King, none will tell him what to do, nor chastise him when he strays, and without a steady hand Thor fears drifting, fears falling into tyranny and cruelty.

Loki has no such fears. Thor is noble and good and his brashness and arrogance have been worn away and polished to confidence and strength of purpose. But if Thor requires a tyrant, well, it is a part he knows well.

Now naked except for the collar, Thor gives Loki a pleading look. In return, Loki dispassionately inspects Thor, checking that his previous bruises and marks have all healed properly, and that he is in good health for what Loki has planned. He is whole and perfect and beautiful, and behind his stony expression Loki smiles and lets his gaze linger when Thor cannot see.

“Stand against the cross,” he snaps. “Face to the restraints. You do not deserve forgiveness. You have brought this punishment on yourself.”

Thor quivers, as though fearful, but his wide eyes and swelling cock betray him, and in truth, nothing that Loki has ever done with him would be enough to cause fear. Thor is a warrior, a lover of battle and fearless before a foe, and Loki knows, from long experience, the absolute difference between Thor’s excitement and his misery.

Thor flattens himself against the large X-shaped cross on the far wall, and waits quietly as Loki secures his wrists and ankles. It is made to exactly Thor’s size, and so he is spread-eagled, muscles taut and straining. The bindrunes on the cuffs are of Loki’s own devising, and sap Thor’s great strength so he may not break free – unless he speaks the right word. So far, he never has.

Thor is too eager today, Loki decides, watching the way he shifts in his bindings, grinding a little against the cross without permission. This is meant to be punishment, not pleasure – not yet – and that means he needs to feel it, needs to understand that Loki is not to be disobeyed. Thor’s incredible tolerance for pain is a source of both great delight and great frustration, but Loki is nothing if not inventive.

He crosses to the chest in the corner and hunts through it noisily until he finds what he is looking for, deliberately letting the chains clank against each other and testing his various crops and canes against the box lid. Thor does not turn his head to watch, but Loki knows he is listening. He selects his tools with care and carries them to the table in the centre of the room, carefully arranging them so he will not have to stop once he has begun.

“You think that because that ignorant rabble out there calls you their King,” he says as takes the blindfold to Thor and ties it in place, “that you have some power, even over me. You are wrong. You are an arrogant, selfish, unworthy fool and you are not _my_ King. You cannot control _me_. You will do as I tell you and you will submit.”

Once, this would have provoked an argument; once this was a sore point between them, one of many, the denial of Loki’s right to the throne a raw and savage wound and Thor’s reluctance to take it a slap in his face. Once, Thor would have laughed, might have roared defiance at being spoken to so by anyone, especially Loki; would have fought or pleaded or made rash promises of brotherhood and fairness. 

But now, long after such battles, after Loki placed the crown on Thor’s head himself and saw the weight of it bring his brother low, Thor shudders in obvious delight at having his responsibilities lifted, at being allowed to serve and not rule, of not having an entire kingdom to be good for, whole worlds to protect.

Loki moves away from Thor and picks up the heavy leather whip from the table. “I am going to whip you until you break,” he tells Thor and sees the sudden tremor in Thor’s buttocks as his body tenses. “I will not stop until you are sobbing, until you understand that you are my slave, and my will is your only law. Do you understand? Speak!”

“Loki,” Thor says, low and regretful, “I am sorry that I disobeyed you. But I am Asgard’s King. I cannot break. Not even for you.”

“You will,” Loki tells him, voice heavy with promise. “You always do, in the end.”

“Loki -”

“Silence!” Loki roars and is well pleased when Thor falls silent just before the whip cracks; before the leather slaps across his taut flesh, leaving a bright red welt against the luscious golden skin.

 _One_.

Thor’s body jerks against the cross, but he makes no sound, not even a sharp gasp or ragged breath. Thor is strong and well used to pain.

It will not do.

 _Two. Three. Four_. _Five_.

The whip sings in Loki’s hands and Thor’s back blooms with elegant, parallel strokes, each slightly spaced; Loki has perfected this art and is only just beginning. Thor exhales slowly, but there’s a distinct hitch, and Loki smiles. It is not only pain he is dealing out, after all.

This is a safe place for Thor. Here, he can give in to the desires he still thinks of as dark and forbidden, and not be found wanting; here, he can fail the tests without the consequences tearing the realms apart and here, he can take his punishment and be assured that that is all that is required of him.

 _Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten_.

Loki strikes hard and true, the strokes now criss-crossing, lashes of fire blazing across Thor’s back, the skin parting beneath their force. He bears it still in silence, with slow breaths and only the slightest of jerks, exposed and helpless beneath the whip, so strong, so resolute in taking the punishment Loki is giving him.

Obedience has never been one of Thor’s better qualities. But suffering for his misdeeds and swearing to learn from them? Ah, that he does, and does it beautifully, and every time he succeeds in bearing the pain, emerges stronger and finer from the torment, he lifts his head a little higher and breathes a little easier.

 _Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen_.

Thor’s back is becoming a ragged mess, for Loki is holding little back, being all too familiar with exactly how much pain Thor can bear. A dull ache is blooming in his own arms and shoulders as he settles into an easy pattern, left and right, rising and falling. Thor’s head falls forward and he must be resting his forehead against the cross, fingers spasming every time the hit lands, breathing becoming ragged as the whipping continues.

Now Thor is a King, Loki is the only one who can set these challenges for him and have the power to punish him when he fails. And if Loki likes to see his brother weeping, likes to see that strong, powerful body broken and bruised, likes more than anything to see the beautiful, cherished, golden Thor brought low and grateful for it – well, Loki has never pretended to be a _good_ man.

 _Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty_.

Thor is panting now, sweat pouring down his exposed back and pooling in the hollows and curves of his muscular body. It must sting as it trickles over the ragged tears the whip has left behind; it must mingle with the salt of his tears and taste bitter, so bitter on Thor’s plush lips; he shines with it, glorious and wrecked and Loki can stare at him as hungrily and as fondly as he likes, let his gaze linger on Thor’s powerful thighs and impossibly wide shoulders, eye the tempting crease of his ass, the way his long hair has fallen forward exposing the nape of his neck, noticeably paler than the rest of his sunkissed skin along the edge of his gleaming collar, the sliver of skin just begging to be bitten and bruised and marked.

 _Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four_ –

Thor whimpers; it is faint, but Loki’s keen ears have been straining for it, and in a few quick strides he is pressed flush against Thor’s bleeding back, his leather and metal armour cold and harsh, and Thor whimpers again.

 “Will you surrender?” Loki asks softly, letting one hand ghost over Thor’s hip and oh so lightly brush over his wet and throbbing cockhead.

“No,” Thor rasps, eyes squeezed shut, though the tears escape anyway and trickle beneath the blindfold and over his bearded cheek.

“Then you have no choice,” Loki says softly, resting the whip handle across Thor’s buttocks, a gentle reminder. “If you cannot win and you will not surrender…you can only break.”

Thor makes a muffled sound of agonised relief; this is hard, so hard for him, but Loki will give him what he needs, will let him shatter here so he does not outside this room, will be his tormenter and his saviour. Thor’s body is one taut line of tension, every muscle tensed and sinew straining, but it is not Loki he is fighting and not the whip’s lashing pain he fears.

“Break for me,” Loki commands, drawing back and raising the whip high, and this time, as it sings out and the leather connects with a brutal slap, Thor does. 

 _Twenty-five_.

Thor howls, the sound reverberating around the small room, and Loki makes a small mental note to reinforce the sound wards before the next session. But it is a mere moment of distraction, for he is enthralled by Thor’s defeat, his loss of control, as he sobs with the pain and with the exquisite pleasure as his hips jerk forward and he grinds against the cross. So fond of battle; so fond of struggle and strife and suffering: this is the Thor Loki knows so well, and the façade of the King shatters under the pressure of Thor’s desperate need.

Loki looks on Thor, wrecked, ruined and _glorious_ , and he breaks too, closes with him, slamming against him, using his body weight to pin Thor even more tightly against the frame, denying him the release he is so close to.

“You only come for me,” Loki growls, fisting his hand in Thor’s hair and dragging his head back, “and only when I _let_ you.”

“Loki,” Thor says, blindfold sodden with tears, “brother, please, _please_ -”

“No,” Loki says, tugging harder, nails digging in to Thor’s scalp. “Say my name.”

“Lo-”

“ _No_ ,” Loki repeats, and he bites down, hard, on the juncture of Thor’s neck and shoulder.

“My King!” Thor yelps, the cry wrenching out him in a high-pitched wail.

“Your master,” Loki snarls and with a flick of his free hand, Thor’s bindings snap open and he crumples into Loki’s grip. He’s free; he’s taken far worse beatings than this at the hands of monsters and villains and creatures of the vast unknown and still come back for more. But now he just lies in Loki’s arms, body shuddering, and though his cock is jerking against his belly, drooling a constant, silvery stream of pre-come, his balls drawn up tight, so obviously a hairs-breadth away from coming, he does not touch himself.

Thor says nothing, does nothing, only waits; the black hole in Loki’s heart gapes and the shadows in his mind gather, for here and now he could do anything, _anything_ , could hurt him, destroy him, _kill_ him –

And because he has that power, he does not. He does not _want_ to, and his wants are all he has to guide him, these days, and here and now, his want is as sharp and urgent as Thor’s needs.

“Open your mouth,” he rasps, yanking Thor forward onto his knees, and Thor does so, without hesitation. Loki scrambles frantically at his clothing – as Thor cannot see him, he need not be controlled and poised – until he can release his aching cock, also full and flushed and deserving of attention, and he steadies himself on Thor’s broad shoulder as he pushes into Thor’s willing mouth.

Thor tries to lap, tries to suck, but Loki is having none of it, and he grabs Thor by his collar and pulls him forward as he fucks in, driving himself deep into Thor’s throat, as Thor chokes and gags and drools and his broad hands lock onto Loki’s legs like a lifeline. The moment Loki pauses, Thor pushes forward, takes him deeper, and his hungry moan vibrates around Loki’s cock even as his throat muscles convulse and that is it, Loki is coming, unable to hold back, lightning licking up his spine as he pours his seed down Thor’s throat.

Loki pulls out, struggling to get his own breathing under control as Thor sucks in great gasps, chest heaving, mouth and chin wet with drool and Loki’s copious seed. He looks debauched and desperate, tear tracks visible on his cheeks, and he has been so good, has broken so beautifully that Loki cannot help the brilliant smile that blooms across his face.

“That’s my good boy,” he croons and Thor’s swollen lips part in agony and relief. “Stand,” he commands, and Thor struggles to his feet, off balance and disorientated, and Loki steps in to catch him as he sways. Thor buries his face in Loki’s neck but otherwise reminds still, a heavy weight on Loki but utterly  pliant in his hands, and Loki settles one hand on his hip and the other, finally, at the base of Thor’s painfully swollen cock.

The smell of blood and sweat and arousal fills the air and Thor grunts and twitches as he slowly strokes Thor, once, twice – “Now, you may come,” he says, whisper soft, on the third stroke, and beautifully on cue Thor does, back arching and body spasming with the force of his release, his seed soaking Loki’s hand and splattering across his armour as his wracked sob echoes lovingly in Loki’s ear.

“Good boy,” Loki says, running soothing hands over Thor as he shakes in the aftermath, “such a good boy, well done, you did so well, I’m so pleased with you -” He can afford to be gentle now, as he removes the blindfold and helps Thor to sit down, cleans and anoints and binds his ragged back, something that Thor prefers to instant healing. He lets Thor drink, lets him sit, dazed and smiling, as he continues to praise him while he cleans himself up with a quick spell, as he watches the bliss settle and the languor sharpen to self-awareness.

Loki will never hold the throne, and the injustice of it will always roil within him. But here, with Thor so much in his power, he finds that perhaps he has something better, for whereas any fool may wear a crown, none but him may say they rule the King of the Nine Realms, and certainly none but him have ever had such complete control over the Mighty Thor.

“Loki,” Thor says, as he comes to back to himself, eyes crinkling as he smiles, warm and hearty and familiar. “Thank you.”

“It is my pleasure,” Loki replies, archness laced with steel undertones, and Thor remains soft and responsive to his touch as he leans in to kiss him, fondly and with love.

“How do you always know when I need you?” Thor asks as they part, as he envelopes Loki in a crushing bearhug, restored and confident for all he is still naked and sporting Loki’s slender collar.

“Because I _know_ you, you fool,” Loki replies fondly, his anger and bitterness spent, leaving him to free to soak up Thor’s warmth and love without resentment. He is not sure if Thor realises how badly he needs this too sometimes, but it is one many things they still do not discuss, and he does not care to dwell on it as Thor pulls his clothes back on, takes him by the hand and side by side they climb back into the light.


	23. Anal sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1\. Anal sex**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth, Serial Killer Tom/Hooker Chris, age difference (21 year old Chris), consent issues, not quite breathplay, sex in a Jaguar. [Because of this commerical, JFC.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kr8yfOfU2Wc)
> 
>  

It’s a fucking cold night, and Chris shifts his weight from one leg to the other, wishing he was tucked up in bed or, at least, sitting in the damn car while having this conversation, instead of fidgeting on the side on the road. He’d thought long and hard about coming out tonight, what with the recent spate of murders, nasty ones that had the papers gleefully reporting on both the mutilations and shocking desecration of the bodies and the apparently scandalous lifestyles of the prostitutes the killer was targeting. But he was out of money, again, and all he needed was one good punter – and fingers crossed, this guy will be just the one he needs, once he shuts up and gets down to business.

“So what’s a good looking boy like you doing on the game?” Tom asks and Chris snorts with laughter. It’s a crap line, and one he’s heard far too many times from men twice his age, their palms as sweaty as their bald spots, each convinced they’re the star of whatever warped Pretty Woman fantasy is playing in their head.

“Making money,” he says with a grin, playing up the arrogance and easy charm that attracts most of the older, richer businessmen that go for him. He’s the popular boy at school they couldn’t admit they had a crush on; he’s the know-it-all new kid in the office they wish they could grind under their designer shoes; he’s anything and everything they want him to be, and he makes damn sure he looks like the Calvin Klein underwear model they probably wank to once their wives have gone to bed, so that he can make that money, and make as much of it as he can.

This one…seems different though. The sleek black jaguar, tailored suit and cut-glass vowels all scream old money and a cushy life, but this Tom is handsome – _very_ handsome – and seems more the type to hire escorts for charity balls than pick up streetwalkers like Chris. Still, everything about him says _filthy fucking rich_ and that’s all Chris really needs to know.

“Mmm,” Tom says, cocking his head to the side and letting his gaze roam over Chris’s tight t-shirt and tighter jeans. Chris crosses his arms, flexing his biceps as he does so, and gives Tom his best cocky grin. He can play the vulnerable waif when he needs to, but he finds most men prefer the illusion of a challenge – or at least, they enjoy feeling like they’ve beaten him, somehow, when they fuck him, and since he’s the one walking away with the cash, he’s happy to indulge.

He’s been talking to Tom for half an hour now, and he’s wondering why he isn’t making a move or asking his price. Tom seems very interested in Chris, actually in Chris as a person, that is and not just a willing, warm body. It’s odd, very odd, as Tom clearly fancies him – and really, why the fuck else would he be here at this time of night, striking up conversation with boys ten years younger and tens of thousands of pounds poorer?

“So you just need money?” Tom says and Chris shrugs. What is he after, if not the obvious?

“Who doesn’t?”

“Me,” Tom says, smiling as if he’s just made a great joke. “Do me a favour, Chris. Stay off the streets for a while. They’re not safe, and you’re far too…valuable to be getting into this kind of trouble.”

“That’s my choice,” Chris says, repressing a sigh. A do-gooder? Really?

“Here,” Tom says, slipping a fat wodge of notes into Chris’s hand; when he looks down, he sees the flash of red and realises they’re all fifties. There’s a grand there, easy, way more than he’d make actually make fucking Tom. “To keep you tied over for a while.”

“I don’t – I’m not a charity case,” Chris growls. Whatever other people might think, he’s still got his pride, and while it’s not exactly the career he thought he’d have after uni, he’s proud of the fact he’s working for his money and not just scrounging.

“Then consider it a gift from a friend,” Tom says with a razor-sharp smile, amusement flaring in his eyes. “Or if that doesn’t sit right, down payment on an installation. I’ve paid more for art far less beautiful than you.”

You smooth fucker, Chris thinks, but the flattery sparks a warm glow he doesn’t want to think too closely about. “Thanks,” he says instead, and then, feeling slightly awkward, “I mean it, Tom. You’re very…kind.”

Tom barks a laugh, shockingly loud and raw, and for an instant his polished veneer cracks and splinters, and something wild-eyed and far hungrier looks at Chris from behind bared teeth. A shudder runs over Chris, fear and wonder and arousal shivering over him as every hair on his body lifts in animal response, goosebumps breaking out as he takes an involuntary half-step back.

The shutters come back down the next moment, and Chris is left struggling not to pant, willing his racing heart to calm. Tom is once again perfectly composed, just another punter with more money than sense, and yet – and yet –

“You really are a darling,” Tom says, voice warm and rich, perfectly friendly, and Chris wonders if he imagined the other moment, the other Tom. “I hope I won’t see you around,” he adds, and then he folds himself back into the sleek car and glides away, leaving Chris clutching the wad of bank notes and wondering what the hell just happened.

Since he has the money and a lingering sense of unease, Chris does in fact stay off the streets for a week, and then another, taking some time for himself and doing his best to ignore the continuing reports of bodies found with parts missing. The media keeps talking about a modern Jack the Ripper, and it gains enough attention for the police to come out in force in the better known cruising grounds, making at least a show of caring that the working girls and boys are being cut to pieces by a psycho in the night. But where there’s coppers, there’s no punters, and no punters means no money, and so most of the guys Chris knows move to the more isolated patches, even further from safety.

Chris joins them. Since the boys in blue started patrolling the laybys and flyovers, the killings seem to have stopped, and most think the killer has been frightened off. Besides, he needs money – he’s got debts, alright, made some shit choices, and a thousand quid doesn’t last long these days, not even when you’re clean and sober and doing your best to get by – and he figures at six foot plus and heavy with muscle he’s safer than most of the teenagers and girls out for business. Trade is slow and the punters jumpy, half-convinced someone of Chris’s height and looks is an undercover copper out for an arrest. Still, he does a couple of tricks, enough to make it worth it, and he gets through it by thinking of Tom and his strange smile, picturing his elegance and good looks every time he gets on his knees.

It’s been six weeks since he saw Tom and a week since the last body surfaced when a familiar black jag swings onto Chris’s road and pulls up beside the streetlight Chris is leaning against.

“This isn’t your usual patch,” Tom says as he gets out of the car, stalking closer, and there’s something off about him tonight – menace hangs heavy on him, shadows gathering behind his eyes, and there’s a sharpness in his tone Chris has never heard before.

“Yeah, well, with all the trouble the lately, it got too hot at the usual place,” he says as Tom prowls restlessly around him, circling the pool of lamplight as if it might scorch him. “Thought I might have better luck out here.”

“Aren’t you worried it might be dangerous?” Tom asks, that black humour creeping back in as he runs a hand over his slicked back hair. “There’s a killer on the loose, they say.”

“I think I’ll be alright,” Chris says, watching him carefully. “Most guys would think twice before trying anything with me.”

“Oh, yes,” Tom says, coming to an abrupt halt and staring at Chris intently. “Twice, thrice and once again. Again and again and again. Always thinking. You are something special.”

 Is he on something, Chris wonders, noting his swamped pupils, the beads of sweat forming at his brow and above his lip. He looks desperate, and yet despite the manic intensity, he seems very much in control, too aware to be off his head.

“Are you ok?” Chris asks, reaching out hesitantly, resting his hand lightly on Tom’s shoulder.

Tom doesn’t move and just stares at Chris. “Not really,” he says, whisper quiet. “I didn’t want…”

“Tom?”

“Get in the car,” he says suddenly. Chris hesitates. But he knows Tom’s good for the money and its unlikely he’ll get anyone else tonight…and besides, for once, he actually _wants_ to. He’s been thinking of Tom for weeks now, and there’s no way he’s passing this up, no matter what kind of crazy mood Tom might be in.

So with a smile, Chris gets in the car.

They drive in silence, Tom staring out at the road, the muscle of his jaw twitching frantically, and after a few attempts to draw him out, Chris sits back and just enjoys the warmth and the plush luxury of the saloon, all real wood and real leather, fancy electronic dashboard blinking at him reassuringly as the time ticks by. They drive and drive, winding through the city and its outskirts, until they hit the suburbs and then the countryside: Chris has never been this far out with a punter and it’s setting off all kinds of warning bells. And yet he does nothing and says nothing. He made his choice when he got in the car, and now he’ll wait to see what Tom’s game is.

At last, Tom pulls up in a deserted picnic spot, the layby-cum-car park hidden from the dual carriageway by a copse of trees. It’s pretty much pitch-black and they’ve not passed another car for twenty minutes: they are alone in as close to wilderness as you can get in this part of the world, and Chris knows exactly how much danger he is in.

But as Tom takes his hands from the steering wheel and looks at Chris, the hunger in his face is tempered by a furrowed brow, a haunted confusion in his eyes, and he hesitates, as if he’s not quite sure which script he should be following.

Chris has no such confusion and he leans over to kiss Tom, gently and fondly, the way he used to kiss, before this job, before it was just another commodity for him to sell. Tom’s lips are soft under his, and as his lips part and the kiss deepens, he tastes like whiskey, all smoky undertones and with a burning bite the minute Chris tries to swallow him down.

“Tom,” Chris sighs into his mouth and at the sound of his name Tom stiffens. “Relax, baby, I got this,” Chris murmurs, falling into his patter without thinking, and he mouths lazily at Tom’s jaw and neck as his hands slip to Tom’s fly and draw him out. The tailored trousers are nearly as tight as Chris’s own jeans, and it takes him a moment to realise that Tom isn’t wearing any underwear. Naughty boy, Chris thinks with a mental grin, as he gets his hands on Tom’s swelling cock, not hard yet but just stirring to life at Chris’s touch, thick and long even now.

God, he wants it, wants it enough he doesn’t even bother to mention the money as he bows his head; Tom already paid him, so this is only fair and in all honesty, he’d do this for free, idiot that he is, because it’s been too long since he felt like this, felt his own desire flaring as his lips brush over a twitching cockhead.

“No,” Tom snaps, fists suddenly tight in Chris’s hair, and he yanks Chris’s head up with enough force to have him hissing in pain. “Not that. Not you.”

Ok, Chris thinks, blinking back the prickling tears. “What do you want?”

“I want -” Tom stares at him, and the same unease crawls over Chris at the flatness of his gaze, the strange shifting from cold composure to white-hot intensity, and he licks his suddenly dry lips. He should probably be afraid, but the shudder that passes over him is not born of fear.

“I want to see you naked,” Tom says, eyes like black holes in the gloom of the car, backlit by the neon dash. “Can I see you naked, Chris?”

“Sure,” Chris says, taken aback. He’s never been naked with a punter before – sure, plenty of them like him to get his shirt off, but most aren’t interested in getting his trousers all the way down, so long as they can get at his ass. “I’ll, uh, get in the back?”

“Yes,” Tom says, low and hungry, and so Chris does. It’s awkward, stripping in a car, especially given his height and long legs, but it’s a big car and he manages it easily enough, piling his clothes in the footwell so he can sit with his legs spread, nice and inviting, the leather seat cold against his skin.

Tom climbs back to join him, long limbs contorting like a spider, and Chris shivers as Tom pushes him back, turns him so he is lying flat on the back seat, legs pulled up to allow Tom to settle between them and crouch over Chris like an animal. The tweed of Tom’s suit is rough against his skin, as are the calloused tips of Tom’s fingers as he sweeps them over his body, starting from the soft underneath of his chin, over his adam’s apple, tracing a line down his chest, tapping over his ribs, drawing a sharp slash over his taut stomach and then walking slowly down from his abdomen to his groin, ending just at the base of Chris’s half-hard cock.

Then he does it again. And again. Again and again, feeling the shape of Chris’s bones, digging his fingers hard into his tendons, rubbing the flat of his hand over the softer, fleshier parts, dragging his immaculately manicured nails over Chris’s skin, dividing Chris into sections with fine scratches that don’t quite break the skin: limbs and torso, meat and bone. It’s the strangest kind of foreplay Chris has ever experienced, but he can’t help but flex and buck under the maddening touch, to whimper slightly under the burning focus of Tom’s gaze. He’s being mapped and judged and evaluated, like a prized animal at market, or like a tailor made garment, and despite the lack of attention to his cock, it has him panting as Tom’s gaze flays him alive.

“You’re so beautiful,” Tom says at last, when Chris is mewling under his hands, palms flat on Chris’s thighs, deliberately avoiding Chris’s flushed and dripping cock. “The others…the others were ugly, you know, dirty, vulgar, broken things. They needed…improving. Needed to be made…worthwhile. But you…you’re perfect. Absolutely perfect. There’s nothing I can give you, nothing I can take from you to make you better than you are.”

“You could fuck me,” Chris yelps, patience snapping. “Tom, please!”

“I…” Tom stares down at him and then looks at himself, at where his own cock is just as hard where it curves out of his trousers. He looks mildly surprised at it, and the wet patch it has made on his shirt edges and again, for a moment, he looks utterly confused, as if this isn’t what he expected at all. “I…could,” he says, and it’s as if the idea has only just dawned on him.

“Now?” Chris says hopefully, and he wriggles against Tom so his cock slaps against his belly.

Tom looms over him, expression thoughtful, and Chris can’t figure out what the fuck is going on his head, but he bats his eyelashes and looks up at Tom from under them in what he hopes is a winning manner. “Please?” he says, a little more breathily than he needs to, and Tom’s face splits with a feral grin.

“Yes,” Tom laughs, sounding far more triumphant than he should, given that Chris was a sure thing from the minute he got in the car. But its pleasing, none the less, and Chris sighs in relief as Tom finally opens one of the car’s dozen hidden compartments and pulls out a condom. “Do you have any slick?” he asks Chris, crisp and efficient, but the grin tugging at his lips keeps revealing his teeth, and he’s clearly just as keen as Chris now.

“Jean pockets,” Chris says; it’s not unusual for clients who think themselves straight to have a condom but no lube, and he always carries both himself. Tom leans over him to grab the discarded jeans, waistcoat rubbing over Chris’s bare chest, and Chris arches into him, letting the fine wool send a thrill through his nipples and along his cock. Tom’s cock bumps against him and he hears him hiss and then exhale.

“Be good, now,” Tom says, sounding something like a headmaster, but with a predatory edge, and Chris shivers at his voice. Damn, but he wants this; fuck the money, fuck common sense, he just wants to have Tom fuck him.

Tom rips open the lube packet and coats his fingers before pushing Chris’s legs up even higher and rubbing a finger over his hole. Whatever his confusion, his hesitancy was before, it’s gone now, and he works Chris open methodically and steadily, apparently indifferent to Chris’s – for once genuine – cries and moans. He’s not gentle, exactly, but he’s precise, and Chris can relax a little more than usual, confident that he won’t be hurt.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Tom says as he withdraws his fingers, cutting across Chris’s babbling as he opens the condom and puts it on, “but you won’t come until I say so. Do you understand?”

He’s going to come? Most punters couldn’t give a damn about him coming, they just want his ass or mouth, maybe a quick grope of Chris’s cock at best, and that’s fine by him, but yes, he wants to come with Tom, wants to have more involvement than just being fucked by him, and if that means playing a little domination game, that’s fine, that’s more than fine.

“Yes,” Chris says, “yes, yes, I won’t -” and then, before he can even get the last word out, Tom breaches him in one brutal thrust, and Chris’s body convulses around him. Fuck, it’s too much, too quick; he can’t breathe, can’t see, his whole being reduced down to where he is split open, impaled on Tom’s huge cock, and all the breath leaves his body in one long sob.

“That’s it,” Tom says, as Chris’s body bows, and then he shoves in even deeper, hooking Chris’s legs over his shoulder and bringing his weight to bear, so that Chris is bent damn near in half, wedged up against the door, trapped and helpless and dragging in short, sharp breaths.

“I can’t,” he sobs when he has enough for air for it, “Tom, please -” and he doesn’t want him to stop, he just wants a moment to adjust, a moment’s peace in the storm of sensation, it’s been over a week since he was last fucked and forever since he’s been fucked like this, his entire body over-sensitive, wound-tight and he just, he just needs –

“Darling boy,” Tom says, cruel and dark, and he shifts his grip, one hand digging into the meat of Chris’s thigh, hard enough to bruise, leaning forward so he can place the other over Chris’s neck and pin him flat to the back seat. “Shut up.”

Chris tries to moan, but the pressure on his throat increases and it comes out choked, a wet, rasping sound, and Tom’s hips slam forward instantly. He’s strong, much stronger than Chris would have guessed for a slim guy, and there’s nothing but frenzied hunger in him now as he fucks Chris in short, powerful thrusts, one foot on the floor and one knee braced on the car seat so he can use his whole body to drive into Chris, filling him up and breaking him apart with each stroke.

It’s brutal and skittering on the edge of too much, but the knife-edge of pleasure and pain is so fucking sweet that Chris can’t help gasping and moaning, the sounds warped and fractured by the hand on his throat, and he promised, he knows he promised, but if he gets the slightest touch on his cock he’ll come, he won’t be able to help it. It’s a good thing then that Tom ignores where his cock is bouncing against his belly, attention wholly focused on his own pleasure, eyes locked on where Chris’s pulse beats between his fingers, though it’s hard to remember it’s good when Chris’s whole body is coiling tighter and tighter, need a wildfire in his veins.

He’d beg if he could, but he can’t even swallow properly, and so he just lies there and takes it, utterly at Tom’s mercy, nothing but high-pitched squeaks emerging even when Tom twists and the fat head of his cock drags over Chris’s prostate. Chris can feel the tears welling in his eyes and sliding down his cheeks, but he couldn’t give a damn; this is the best fucking lay of his life, and Tom seems thrilled as he bends even closer and laps the salt from Chris’s face.

“Perfect,” he says, thrusts beginning to stutter, panting through clenched teeth, “perfect, perfect, _mine_ -” and then he’s coming, a low, broken sound wrenching from him and he tightens his grip on Chris’s neck too hard – too hard – he can’t –

But then the pressure is gone and the spots in his vision clear and he draws in deep shuddering breaths, keenly aware that Tom is still sheathed within him and of his desperate, agonising need to come.

“Good boy,” Tom says, sounding wrecked, although barely a hair is out of place and he hasn’t even taken off his suit jacket. “That was – good.”

“Please,” Chris says through gritted teeth, “Tom, I’ve got to come, _please_.”

“Demanding, aren’t we,” Tom tsks, but he wraps a fine-boned around Chris’s cock and says firmly as he strokes, “you will come now.”

And Chris does – he fucking _howls_ as it crashes over him, body spasming, clenching tightly around Tom’s softening cock as lightning licks over his spine and sizzles through him, orgasm a blessed relief and an overwhelming torrent all at once. It’s so intense he barely registers his own come splashing across his chest, and he’s so dazed in the aftermath he allows Tom to stretch him out and clean him up with supplies from a large duffle bag that mysteriously appears from the boot without so much as a murmur. The thick blanket that Tom wraps him in instead of his clothes is a surprise, but he doesn’t see the point in complaining as he’s bundled back into the front seat: it’s warm and soft, obviously frequently washed, and it’s rather pleasant to snuggle into. He can get dressed in a minute.

But Tom starts the car before he moves, and pulls out on to the still-deserted road without another word, immaculately dressed and pristine once again, his long fingers resting lightly on the steering wheel without any signs of nervousness. Artist’s hands, Chris thinks drowsily, watching the lights overhead flare across Tom’s cheekbones before being swallowed by shadow, and he’s so captivated by Tom it takes him a while to realise they are going the wrong way.

“Where are we going?” Chris says, as it becomes apparent they are heading even further away from the city.

“I’m taking you home,” Tom says calmly, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to do after fucking a prostitute. “I’ve decided I’m going to keep you.”

“Keep me?” Chris says. “What, you mean like a mistress?” Do rich people still have ‘kept boys’, he wonders, or is Tom a secret Mills and Boon fan?

“I think you know what I'm saying,” Tom says, grinning his shark grin, and despite his lazy satisfaction, Chris feels a low throb of want and fear in his belly.

He’s alone in a car with a man he barely knows, who is speeding away to God knows where. This might be a bad idea. But then, how often are rich, handsome men interested in an exclusive deal with Chris? What are the chances of anyone else offering him a place to live and who knows what else, just so they can have him on hand for sex – sex that Chris actually wants and enjoys?

Yeah, he’s not _that_ naïve.

“Ok,” he says, smiling back, and when Tom’s hand slides possessively from the gear stick to Chris’s exposed bare leg, he doesn’t flinch away.

This must be his lucky day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [...this is now a stand-alone fic with a second chapter. Click here to read it](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1164014/chapters/2366309) :)


	24. Awkward sex / things that don’t go as planned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **2\. Awkward sex / things that don’t go as planned**
> 
>  
> 
> Thor/Loki, dirty talk, bottom!Thor

“Look at you,” Loki sneers, lip curling as he looks down at Thor. “So desperate. So needy. You’ve wanted this for so long, dear brother. You’d do anything for me to fuck you.”

“Yes!” Thor says cheerfully, beaming up at him, and Loki rolls his eyes.

It’s been a long time coming, though Thor could not quite say why, for Loki is quite right: he has been imagining Loki taking him for centuries and now that it is finally happening, he can barely contain his excitement. Now that they have settled into a relationship that does not involve attempted murder or betrayal on a weekly basis, they finally have time to explore each other properly; so far, it has always been Thor burying himself in his brother’s willing flesh, but that is only because he cannot seem to keep his hands off Loki, and sliding into his sweet, warm body is the best form of fucking he knows.

But just because he has let no other have him does not mean he wants to have Loki only in one way. Once he realised how one-sided their coupling had been, he had of course asked Loki if he would like to try the other way and had been delighted at how readily Loki had responded. He will admit to finding the intrusion of Loki’s fingers strange at first, but it had soon turned to melting pleasure, and now he cannot _wait_ to welcome Loki’s cock into his body, to be taken and claimed by the one he loves most dearly of all.

Loki does not seem to be in the same hurry.

“Look at you,” he says again, running his hands possessively over Thor’s body, palms skimming over the soft skin of Thor’s inner thighs where they are spread invitingly outward. “So beautiful. Just begging for me to take you.”

Thor nods enthusiastically. His brother’s languid voice and greedy touches are wonderful things, but he has had them all before. Now he wants something new.

“I’m going to fuck you through this mattress,” Loki growls, arching his body in a curve over Thor’s, grinding his thick cock slide along Thor’s own erection, shifting his hands to probe again at Thor’s wet and open hole. Thor spreads his legs a little wider and smiles. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you will be feeling it for days. I’m going to fill you with my come and then watch it slide down your thighs, lick it all up and then fuck you again. I’m going to _wreck_ you, Thor, and you’re going to love every second of it.”

Thor lets his head fall back as Loki stretches himself out, settling into position between Thor’s thighs, rolling his hips so that his cock brushes tantalisingly over Thor’s ass. “You’re going to look so beautiful, spread around my cock,” Loki continues, breath coming faster. “Just think of it, brother: you, impaled, speared, writhing on my cock as I fuck you. I’ll fuck the breath from your lungs, the thoughts from your mind – you’ll know nothing but the drag of my cock inside you, I can promise you that.”

Thor _is_ thinking about it; Thor thinks it sounds wonderful and he wriggles a little beneath Loki, ready, so ready for everything Loki wants to give him.

But Loki is still talking.

“You’re going to feel so good,” he says, eyes glazing slightly, bracing himself against Thor’s arms as he grinds against him. “I’m going to spread you wide, fuck you deep, everything you’ve ever wanted. You’re mine now, and I’m going to fuck you better than anyone else _ever_ has. It will ruin you for all others, will make you mine, forever -”

Thor shifts a little, impatience skittering through him. _Why_ is Loki still talking?

“You’re so eager, aren’t you, brother,” Loki says, voice trembling a little. “So desperate for a good, hard fucking.”

“Loki,” Thor groans, hoping to hurry him along. “Loki, please, now -”

“That’s it,” Loki spits, pushing harder against him, cock sliding between his ass cheeks and just bumping along his fluttering hole. “Beg for me, Thor, beg for the best fuck you’ve ever had -”

Thor cannot take any more. “Loki, fuck me!” he shouts and hooks his legs tightly around Loki’s waist, pulling him forward with a sudden jerk, so that the tip of Loki’s cock pushes into him, just the very tip, finally, finally starting to enter him –

Loki yelps, oddly high-pitched, fingers digging painfully into Thor, and suddenly, there’s an unmistakable flood of wetness soaking Thor’s thighs.

Well, that wasn’t exactly what Thor was hoping for.

He stares incredulously at Loki, who has his eyes screwed tightly shut, and who is panting furiously, two spots of colour flaring high on his cheeks. He looks both blissful and mortified, a very strange combination, but Thor knows which will win out in but a few moments. He remembers well enough Loki’s vicious tantrums whenever he felt he had been embarrassed in their youth, not to mention his no-so-distant habit of stabbing Thor whenever he got upset, and he really, really does not want an angry or distressed Loki in his arms this night.

Thor thinks fast.

“Loki,” he growls, surging up and rolling them over, ignoring Loki’s choked-off snarl as he pins him to the bed. “My Loki -” and he kisses him frantically, pouring all his pent-up lust into it, swallowing whatever hateful nonsense is no doubt poised to leap from Loki’s tongue. Loki bucks up into him and claws at his chest and arms, but he’s not pushing Thor away, not trying to hurt him, just working out some of his temper, and Thor is happy to help.

He parts Loki’s legs roughly and fits himself between Loki’s taut ass cheeks, just as Loki had done; it’s a little rougher, given that Loki is dry and tense, but he wraps his legs around Thor and rocks into him, and this is good enough for Thor, more than enough, and so he pushes and slides and grinds against Loki, not entering him, just enjoying the warmth of his skin and the firmness of his muscles.

Thor’s on edge enough he needs no more, and so he pushes faster, more jerkily, mouth full of Loki’s taste and his hungry whimpers, and he thinks of what it will be like when Loki finally does fuck him, of how eager Loki is to have him, of how his own words were enough to topple Loki over the edge, and within moments he is coming, cock leaping as his orgasm sweeps through him, sudden and fierce and as thrillingly good as always.

Of course he wants Loki to fuck him, but really, what he wants most is for Loki to be happy, to make Loki feel good and share in that goodness with him, and as far as he is concerned, that means this is a success, not a failure.

Loki will likely have a different opinion.

Even as he comes down from his spine-tingling orgasmic high Thor is aware of this and can feel Loki tensing up beneath him. He's not having any of that, and swiftly covers Loki with kisses, nipping at his lips every time he starts to speak again, and after a few moments of this Loki subsides and lets Thor hold him. They will need to talk about this at some point, but if they try to do so now, with Loki so raw and unsettled, it will only go badly for both of them. Loki needs a little time; it will not seem so shameful a thing after a little nap in Thor’s arms.

And besides, in a few hours they can try again, Thor thinks, and it might be even better for having worked off their more frantic need now.

And if not, he knows exactly where Loki’s gag is kept.

One way or another, he _will_ get that fucking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat crackier than usual, I am aware! Based on this awesome prompt from a tumblr anon:
> 
>  
> 
> thor and loki fuck regularly and then loki is going to top for the first time and decides to do some dirty talking and thats pretty much all he does he tells thor how good he is with his cock how thor will never want anything else he basically talks and talks, all talk and no action. and thor's patience is waning, he came here to fuck wtf and loki keeps talking, think about those villains in movies when they have the hero at their mercy and they keep talking and telling the hero their plans and then everything the villain planned goes to waste and he looses? thats it, loki talks talks talks and thor tires of waiting and takes loki intead and thats the story of how lokis schemes never work


	25. Sensory deprivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **2\. Sensory deprivation.**  
>  Thor/Loki, vague post-Avengers AU where Thor remains on earth and Loki is a reoccurring supervillain. Only warning here is for feels...

Thor wakes in a flash, heart pounding, hand already reaching for Mjolnir, but it is already too late.

“Hello, brother,” Loki hisses, pressing what feels like one of his throwing daggers against Thor’s throat. “Do not try to call for help. None will hear you, not even your faithful hammer.”

Thor blinks – and blinks again, stretching his eyes wide. The curtains in his room are thicker than most, for he finds the endless electronic lights of New York less soothing than the swirling stars of Asgard’s sky, but his quarters have never before been so dark, the blackness so thick and cloying. He can see nothing.

“You have blinded me,” he says flatly, ignoring the faintest brush of fear. How can he fight if he cannot see where to strike – he will be helpless, a burden to his companions, unworthy of the reputation he has built -

“Not quite,” Loki says, a heavy weight pinning him to the bed. “I have brought this darkness with me. When I go, it will pass from you. Pleasant as the thought of maiming you is, dearest Thor, I would not _blind_ you. What joy would there be in having you broken at my feet if you could not see how far you had fallen?”

Thor relaxes, just a little. So, his blindness, Mjolnir’s silence, the lack of alarm from his fellow Avengers and the tower’s faithful watchman are all a product of this dark magic of Loki’s. This is not a grand scheme or wild attack on the mortals he loves. They are all safe outside this shield of darkness: that is to the good. Loki has come only for him.

It is not the first time.

He shifts a little under Loki, trying to gain of a sense of their positions. He is sprawled on his back, hands flat on the bed, but he does not seem to be tethered. Loki is sat across his hips, thighs clamped tightly against Thor’s legs, the leather and metal of his armour pressing uncomfortably against Thor’s bare skin.

 And, of course, Loki has a knife at Thor’s throat. But Thor is not overly worried by that. If Loki wanted him dead, dead he would be.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Normally, he would be looking into Loki’s eyes, searching for some sign of the man he knew, the brother he lost; without his sight, he must listen instead, to Loki’s breathing, quicker than it ought to be, the creak of leather as he moves otherwise imperceptibly back, and the quiet, wet sound of Loki’ tongue dragging across his lips before he speaks.

“For my amusement,” Loki answers, but in the absolute darkness Thor hears the hesitation, the tiny inflection in the words. When they were tiny boys, oh, so long ago, they had shared a bedroom for a time: many a night he had woken to find Loki pressed tightly against him, shivering despite the warmth that surrounded him, head buried in Thor’s chest. _Brother,_ he had asked sleepily, _brother,_ _why do you weep? What is wrong?_

 _Nothing is wrong,_ Loki had said in the darkness, with just that same ripple through the words. _I am not crying. Go back to sleep. I am fine._

 _Liar,_ Thor had thought then. But he had said nothing and done nothing and in time, Loki had stopped coming to him, stopped seeking reassurance in Thor’s steady heartbeat and the safety of the dark.

“Liar,” Thor says softly but clearly, sweeping his hands slowly from his sheets to rest lightly on Loki’s legs. He concentrates carefully and there: a faint but persistent trembling in Loki’s thighs, a shiver running through his body that he is trying desperately to resist.

Loki laughs, high and bitter, and draws a single breath to launch another tirade, another flood of poison and lies, but Thor is done with it.

“ _Liar_ ,” he snarls and he feels Loki’s body tense, feels him lock up tightly and in one easy movement he grabs the hand at his throat and forces it away, his grip tight enough that Loki’s fingers spasm and the knife falls, hitting the floor with a peculiar muffled thump as it passes through Loki’s magic shroud.

Loki spits curses at him but this is an old game now, and it takes bare seconds and little effort for Thor to wrestle him down and pin him as he was pinned. He does not need sight for this: he knows Loki’s body as he knows his own.

“What is wrong, brother?” he asks in the darkness, conscious of the sweep of his own lashes against his skin, Loki’s heaving gasps and his too-cold skin where it peeks from the bulky armour – armour that is too light, too flexible, he thinks, pressing himself against Loki more firmly. An illusion.

“Everything,” Loki chokes, though whether struggling with sorrow or rage Thor cannot tell. “Everything has been wrong from the very beginning.”

“Perhaps,” Thor allows, for he has thought to himself that much of their woes stem from the lies told from the day Loki was first brought to Asgard. “But there has been right, and much that I would not change, nor set aside.”

He waits for the tide of insults and accusations bound to follow from such a statement, but beneath him, Loki is quiet and trembling. In the pitch black Thor must reach first for Loki’s shoulder and then follow the line of his bones along to his throat, trail a hand gently over clenched jaw and sharp cheekbones and slide slowly to cup Loki’s neck, leaning in until he can feel Loki’s rapid pants against his own mouth.

“Would you change everything?” he murmurs, hearing the sadness in his own words. “Set aside…everything?”

Loki’s hair is matted with sweat and clumped beneath his fingers; he smells of leather and spice, as he always has, and yet there is a faint tang of salt and metal, old wounds and bad blood. He is gaunter than he was, not frail, never frail, but whittled down, honed to too-sharp an edge, and as the armour-illusion fades and leaves only cold skin pressed to Thor’s own, Thor mourns the riper curves that he remembers, the pliant and supple covering that once softened Loki’s whipcord strength.

“It was never mine,” Loki whispers, and Thor need not ask what _it_ might be. “It was all a lie. A trick. I cannot keep it. It is not in my power to decide what to change and what to choose.”

“You would admit defeat so easily?” Thor says with a deliberate edge of scorn. “After all you have done, you would give…everything…up without a fight? You are many wicked things, brother, but I have not yet known you to be a coward.”

“Do not speak to me of what I am,” Loki snarls, heat finally flaring within him. “I will not be pitied. I will be feared, if I cannot be respected. I will be a terror, if I cannot be a wonder. I will be hated, if I cannot be -”

“Loved,” Thor says, and he dips his head to press a kiss to Loki’s cheek – but in the dark he is misled, and his lips touch Loki’s instead.

They part for him.

“Loved,” Thor breathes into Loki’s mouth. “You are loved.”

“I _hate_ you -” Loki hisses but he’s arching into Thor, locking his legs around him, and in the blackness Thor hears every tiny gasp and whimper buried at the back of Loki’s throat as he kisses him, as he bears down on him with love and lust and the heat of his body, trying his best to give all that he has to Loki’s cold and shattered heart.

He can feel every inch of Loki pressed against him: his jackrabbit heartbeat, the fine wisps of hair dusted along the nape of his neck, soft and silken under Thor’s rough thumb, the dip and curve of his hipbones, too prominent where they butt against Thor’s own. He is glad, so glad that he cannot see Loki’s face, for as he tries to part them, tries to find the words he needs, Loki chases him blindly with his mouth, desperate, fractured noises bleeding from his lips, he thinks he hears a thaw, thinks he feel a benediction in the sweep of Loki’s palms over his back, his arms, his vulnerable flanks.

“Do not be gentle,” Loki hisses into his ear when they finally break, as Thor fists his hands against the bed for fear that he might shatter Loki if he held him as tightly as he wants to. “Don’t you _dare_ be gentle with me,” and there’s a choked-off sob as Thor’s teeth fasten at his neck to suck a bruise into that well-remembered pale column, a sorrow and a regret that claws at Thor’s heart.

Thor has tried to be gentle before, tried to plead and beg, battered his bleeding heart against the sneering mask and serpent’s eyes that Loki faced him with; here, in the dark, he can see that gentleness is not yet a gift that Loki will accept from him.

He bites harder at Loki’s neck and pushes roughly against him, imagining himself a fire, a storm, a great flood washing over Loki’s defences, a hurricane screaming as it rips away the bonds and barbed wire Loki has entangled himself in. Loki clings to him as if this were true, as if he might, at any moment, be lost, be carried away, fall again into a blackness even darker than the one they writhe in now.

Loki’s body quakes and then he twists in Thor’s grip, lets his legs fall outward, and Thor feels his muscles contract, his body bow as he lifts his hips high and grinds down, pushing Thor’s cock between his ass cheeks. Thor pushes forward, just a little, to feel the head of his cock bump against Loki’s tight pucker, too tight, not ready, and he knows this, yet still the hunger is strong in him, to take and mark and own, to have Loki impaled on his cock and flooded with his seed, _his_ , to fill him up with the only kind of love Loki will let him give –

“Do it,” Loki snarls, feral and spitting, sounding half-broken, half-mad, “I deserve this, go on -”

But even in the haze of his lust Thor can hear the wrongness, and so he ignores the invitation in the roll of Loki’s hips and the flexing of his thighs, opting instead to soothe the mark he has made on Loki’s neck with long, lazy licks, not entirely certain he is lapping at the right wound.

“I will not hurt you,” he says. “Not like this.”

 “Damn you,” Loki rages, and for a moment Thor hears the echo of his madness, but then Loki sobs and curls ever more tightly into Thor’s body. “I cannot bear gentleness, Thor, I just want -”

“Your wants are many,” Thor interrupts, “but I am concerned tonight with your needs,” and he raises himself up, just a little, that he might fit more nearly against Loki, face to face, heart to heart and hip to hip, their cocks full flush against one another. Loki may not want to accept to his gentleness, but there is a desperate, clawing need in him, and if he will not be careful with himself, Thor will have to be careful for him.

He can feel Loki’s lips moving against his cheek, tiny puffs of air dusted against his beard, but whether in prayer or poisonous hate he cannot tell. It does not matter. Words are Loki’s favourite weapon and he wields them like blades, cutting both himself and all others with their sharpness. But Thor has ever favoured tools that can build as well as destroy.

 “Loki,” he says, and nothing more: “Loki,” and he lingers over the syllables, lengthens the long vowel sound of the first, the way his tongue curls like a wave as it forms and flows, softens to sharp click of the second by keening the last letter, drawing it out and rolling around his mouth. “Loki,” he says, fondly, warmly; “Loki,” and he murmurs against his brother’s skin, breathes it into his lungs, to carry his love down into his core.

In the light, Loki would no doubt laugh at him, would raise a flashing sneer and blinding snarl to ward off such an attack, but in the velvet darkness there can be no defence, and he must hear the heavy weight in Thor’s word, hear the truth and pain and joy as his name leaves Thor’s lips. Thor feels him shudder with the blow, the tremors starting at his eyelashes, damp and growing damper as tears slide down his face and tangle in Thor’s beard, migrating downwards, until he quakes against Thor as if his very foundations are breaking.

“Loki,” Thor says, for he is pitiless in war, and knows only victory in battle, and he too begins to move, sliding against Loki, a steady siege against his quivering flesh, and though he has not breached him, he can feel Loki opening up beneath him. Loki’s tiny cries thunder in his ears and without the distracting sight of him in his pleasure, Thor must look instead to the flex and bow of his body to find his joy, revelling in every bead of sweat as it slicks the way between them, feeling every muscle tense, every tendon leap as Loki gasps and grinds against him, a creature of constant movement, no longer frozen but a firebrand in Thor’s arms.

Suspended in shadows, Thor has no sense of how long they move with each other; his pleasure builds slowly without hand or mouth or willing flesh to surround his aching cock, but he would have it no other way, for as they move Loki’s hands flit across him, nails dragging in a cascade of sparking pinprick pain, winding in his hair as if he would draw him closer, snuff out every patch of night that separates his alabaster skin from Thor’s golden form.

Lips and tongues and touch drive them forward, hips rolling, sighing like the ocean, and in the heady darkness Thor fancies he is drowning, that Loki is swallowing him up as the sea drinks the moonlight, dragging him into its depths. He moves with the currents, still raining Loki’s name down upon him and receiving soft sobs in return, and feels, at last, Loki settling back into his orbit, joining the tide that is flowing between them, climbing that selfsame wave as Thor, bodies tightening, cries rising until they crest and break and tumble down, together, filling the air with the tang of salt.

 _Thor_ , Loki mouths against his cheek, the word itself still lodged in his throat. _Thor_ , the shape of his name a flicker of the tongue and a hollowing of the cheeks, and Thor kisses him, licks the salt from his cheeks and then from his belly, earning himself a different kind of tremor as Loki laughs, very quietly, fingertips brushing over Thor’s face, mapping out nose and eyes and lips and jaw.

Thor does not need to see him to know that he is smiling.

But, as ever, their moment of peace is short-lived. Even as Thor rolls to his side and gropes blindly in the darkness to draw Loki into an embrace, he feels the sharp edges returning and must hang on tightly to keep Loki from squirming out of his bed.

“Loki,” he says tiredly, and his brother subsides, comes to lie within the span of Thor’s arms, his breath stirring Thor’s hair as he arranges himself in front of him and grudgingly allows Thor’s to curl around him.

“You would take even my rage from me,” Loki says, shoulders shaking. “You have _everything_ , and I have nothing -”

“You have me,” Thor interrupts, and he drops a kiss to the top of Loki’s head, now buried against his chest. “I will always protect you, brother. Even from yourself.”

“I do not need protecting,” Loki spits, though his venom is muffled by Thor’s bulk.

“Have you ever thought,” Thor says slowly, “that perhaps it is I who has a need to protect you? That I have always needed you, and always will?”

Loki is silent save for his tiny hiccupping breaths. “This changes nothing between us,” he says at last, perfectly balanced between regret and resentment.

“I know,” Thor says, doing his best not to hold Loki even tighter. “But does it change anything for you?”

Loki is quiet again. “Perhaps,” he says, whisper-soft. “Not everything. But perhaps something.”

“Then I am glad,” Thor says, resting his chin on Loki’s head.

Loki exhales slowly and says nothing. But as Thor’s eyes drift closed he sees the pitch-blackness bleeding away from the edges, and in the dim grey light left behind he sees the hazy outline of Loki in his arms, quiet if not peaceful, pale and bruised and gaunt, but with a tiny smile lurking at the corners of his blood-red mouth.

Dawn is coming and Loki is still here. It is not everything Thor wants, but perhaps it is something, after all.

 


	26. Leather & Humiliation Kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 16\. Latex/leather »> Humiliation
> 
> Tom Hiddleston/Chris Hemsworth, service top sub Chris and power bottom dom Tom, flogging, crossdressing, orgasm denial, humiliation kink
> 
> Ok, so ages ago [thorsicle sent me a prompt](http://thorsicle.tumblr.com/post/61869598383/excuse-me-while-i-jump-off-the-deep-end-for-a); I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. More recently, an anon sent an ask about Hiddlesworth orgasm denial and that’s ended up here too…
> 
> This is supposedly for the leather fill but, well, while there is leather in the fic, really, it’s a Humiliation Kink fill ~handwave~

“You’re lying.”

It’s said softly, but Chris jerks back as if he’s struck. He’d rather he had been.

In the silence that follows, he can hear the drag of his tongue over his dry lips, his own nervous swallows. Should – should he deny it? Or would that just make it worse?

“Oh, _Chris_ ,” Tom says, and he sounds so disappointed that Chris flinches again, cowers back from Tom’s sad eyes and resigned sigh. “What I am to do with you?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words flooding out of him in a hot rush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to -”

“You didn’t mean to disobey?” Tom asks, stepping forward, the heels of his boots clicking sharply across the tiled floor. “Or you didn’t mean to lie?”

“Both,” Chris says quickly as the head of the leather crop presses firmly under his chin. He can’t imagine resisting and so he lets Tom tilt his head upward, forces himself to meet Tom’s displeased expression.

“Explain,” Tom orders, clipped and precise, and Chris swallows again.

“I meant to keep it on,” he says, not daring to gesture to the expensive lacy bra and panties peeping from his open shirt and flies. “I tried. I kept my jacket on all day, made sure to go into the stalls in the bathroom, I was trying, I tried so hard -”

“And?”

“But the video conference with Switzerland was rearranged,” Chris says desperately. “I had to go, and the room was hot, so hot, and my jacket was open, and my shirt, my white shirt, I wasn’t sure, I was afraid -”

“That everyone would see,” Tom says flatly, letting the crop trail down Chris’s throat and along his chest, the leather cool against his flushed skin. “That everyone would know what a filthy little slut you are.”

“Yes,” Chris whimpers. “I’m sorry.”

Tom sighs, gaze fixed on where the crop rests against the top of Chris’s panties. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I –I -”

“You should have called me,” Tom insists, leaning forward slightly so that the crop rests heavy on Chris’s pubic bone. “If you had explained, I would have given you permission to remove the bra. I am not an unreasonable man, Chris.”

“I know,” Chris babbles, fear and anticipation shuddering through him. “I know, and I’m sorry. I should, I should have called you -”

“But you didn’t,” Tom says, and now there’s a hint of anger in his voice, his knuckles turning white as he tightens his grip on the crop, pushes it harder against Chris’s soft and vulnerable flesh. “You disobeyed me. And then you had the audacity to _lie_ to me, to say that you had followed the rules when you knew you had not. You have been bad, Chris. Very, very bad. I had such plans for tonight, but now…I can’t very well reward this kind of behaviour, can I?”

Chris whimpers again but Tom ignores it. “We’re not going out,” he snaps, voice deepening, the anger thrumming through him. “Take off your suit and get on your hands and knees.”

Chris obeys as fast as he can, as if promptness now can make up for his wrongdoing earlier. He knows better than to just abandon the suit, so he folds in neatly and places it to the side, atop his shoes, before getting into position as commanded.

“The bra too,” Tom says. “Since you are such an ungrateful brat. The time and effort I spent choosing it for you – making sure it would cup your pretty tits so nicely – all ruined, because you are a disobedient, selfish boy.”

Chris hangs his head in shame as his cock throbs. He shuffles to his knees so he can unhook the beautiful bra and gently, reverently places it atop the folded suit. Perhaps if he is good now, Tom will let him wear it again another day.

“Do you know what happens to greedy, naughty boys?” Tom asks rhetorically as Chris gets back on his hands and knees, not daring to adjust the panties as they ride up along his ass cheeks, nor the hold ups stretched taut over his thick thighs. “They get flogged. Greedy, naughty boys get flogged for being bad, and if they’re as sorry as they say they are, they count the hits. If they don’t count the hits, their masters get angry, and then they forget how many they’ve given. Are you sorry, naughty boy? Or do you want me to flog you raw?”

The thought flashes like wildfire through Chris, but he is sorry, so sorry, and he wants only to please Tom. “I’m sorry,” he says, hunched low. “I’m sorry and I’ll count.”

“You’d better,” Tom snarls, and then he’s raising the crop and the leather connects with Chris’s ass with a sharp crack. Chris jerks: it’s not as painful as a caning, but Tom is putting some power into it, and the panties, pretty as they are, do not provide much protection from the stinging slap as the crop lands.

“One,” he yelps; “two! Three! Four!”

Tom is very angry with him, and the hiss and crack of the crop is punctuated with his yelps and sobs as he counts the hits, ass surely red and glowing as Tom flogs him. It hurts and it feels good, feels _right_ , and the terrible lead weight in his chest lifts as he is punished for his wrongdoing, the guilt at disobeying and lying fading with each strike against his sensitive, aching flesh.

But flogging isn’t enough, not for what he’s done, and though Tom leaves him throbbing and hissing, he stops long before Chris feels that he has been suitably punished.

 “On the bed,” Tom says, tossing the crop aside. “On your back. Spread your legs.”

Chris obeys, smarting all over, but the pain has only heightened the adrenalin rush buzzing within him as he waits to see how Tom will really punish him. He stretches himself out on their bed, head on the pillow, legs spread wide, shifting a little as the panties rub tantalisingly against his swollen cock.

Tom stands at the foot at the bed, arms crossed. “At least you are pretty enough to look at,” he says bitingly. “For a devious, deceitful liar. What would your staff say if they could see you like this? Big, powerful Hemsworth, on his back and gagging for it, a hungry little cockwhore all dolled up in his panties and stockings?”

Chris moans, shame soaking through him, a rush of heat that leaves him light-headed. He imagines his partners, his PA, all the staff at the office standing around him as he writhes on Tom’s bed, hands over their mouths, staring and whispering, utterly shocked at the sight of him. It’s one of his favourite fantasies, and the one that kickstarted the idea of him wearing lingerie to work in the first place.

“You filthy bastard,” Tom says harshly, climbing on the bed and settling between Chris’s legs. “You dirty, dirty little tart. Look at you! You’re so hard you can’t even keep it in your panties. You’re so desperate for me to fuck you you’d do anything, wouldn’t you? You’d let me fuck me in front of all of them, hmm? How’d you think they’d react to that? The CEO bent over his own desk, trousers round his ankles and ass in the air, your wet cock all tangled up in your lace panties, howling for me as I fucked you senseless. They’d be horrified. They’d never look you in the eye again.”

 _Yes_. Chris shudders at the thought of it, cock indeed straining at the panties, the muscles in his abdomen leaping as he clenches against nothing. Oh, god, he needs Tom to fuck him.

But Tom just watches him, eyes narrowed to slits as Chris gasps and arches. “Or maybe, maybe they’d like seeing you that,” he says, voice dropping even deeper. “Maybe they’d _love_ to see you with a cock in your ass. Maybe I’d let them fuck you once I was done, stuff their fat cocks into your wet, dripping hole, fill you up as I fuck your pretty mouth. Maybe they’d have you two, three at a time, fucking you with a cock or a dildo or their hands, all of them, getting off on you spread-eagled and fucked senseless, dripping with come and screaming for more.”

Oh god. Oh, god. All of them looking, watching, _using_ him, while Tom stands over him, barking directions, hand fisted in Chris’s hair, never letting him forget who he belongs to, who all this is for –

“Tom,” he pants, hips bucking, “Tom, _please_ -”

Tom smiles coldly. “No,” he says. “You don’t deserve my cock tonight.”

Chris stares at him, tear pricking at his eyes. “I’m going to help myself to yours and you are going to lie there and _do_ nothing, _say_ nothing and _have_ nothing, while I fuck myself the way I want to, while I use you like the slut you are. You won’t come until I’m done with you, until you’re so desperate you can’t stand it anymore, until it’s fucking _killing_ you that haven’t come. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Chris croaks, tears spilling down his cheeks, and Tom squeezes his cock hard – too hard, painfully hard – at the base, forcing Chris to still himself.

“And because you can’t keep your word,” Tom continues mercilessly, “I’m going to put the cock ring on. Because _I can’t trust you_.”

Chris mewls, shame and lust and adrenalin overwhelming him, and Tom pauses, places a steadying hand on his chest. “Breathe,” he says, still cold and harsh, but his gaze rakes over Chris, considering, careful, and Chris swallows a gulp of air, forces himself to slow down, inhales deeply through his noise and exhales slowly through his mouth. He wants to be good. He _needs_ to be good.

Tom watches him for a few seconds more and Chris concentrates on the weight of his hand, the steady pace of his breathing, and he breathes with him, lets his overwrought body relax a little.

Satisfied, Tom reaches for their treasure box, always close at hand for a session, and pulls out a leather cock ring, currently unfastened, looking for all the world like a studded leather bracelet. It’s an older toy, back from when they first started these little games, and was the first gift Chris dared to wear in public, unable to stop twisting it around his wrist once Tom had put it on, convinced he could still feel Tom’s body heat rising from it. But now, it feels unpleasantly cold as Tom tugs off his panties and snaps it into place around his balls and cock, so tight it almost pinches.

“You will tell me when you get close,” Tom says, stroking the leather of the cock ring with one fingertip, just grazing the very edge of Chris’s ball sack as he does so. “If you don’t – if you come without permission – you won’t come for a month. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Chris replies, voice steady this time, and Tom nods sharply.

“Watch,” he snaps and then he’s swinging a leg over Chris, kneeling over him but facing away, presenting his gorgeous ass to Chris’s face and Chris can only watch as Tom slicks his fingers with lube and then slides the first into his own hole. This is a double punishment, for it sparks the memories of those long, slender fingers sliding into Chris, opening him up for the fucking he so desperately wants and won’t be getting tonight, but also makes it clear how unhappy Tom is with him, that he would rather stretch himself instead of commanding Chris to do it for him.

It’s also, of course, incredibly hot and Chris grits his teeth and tries to remain still when every fibre of his body is crying out with _want_ at the sight of Tom fingering himself, one hand pushing the perfect globes of his ass cheeks apart as the others pump steadily in and out of his pink hole, now wet and gleaming with slick.

Tom takes his time, unconcerned with Chris’s torment, and as he turns and positions himself over Chris’s swollen cock, flushed an angrier red than usual from the tight cock ring, he fists his own cock lazily, an arrogant sneer twisting his beautiful mouth.

“You want this so badly,” he says, pushing his hips forward so that his rising cock bobs in Chris’s face. “Tell me, little slut. Tell me how much you want it.”

“Please,” Chris begs, mouth watering at the sight of Tom’s cock just inches away. “Oh, god, Tom, please let me suck you, fuck my face, anything _, anything_ -”

Tom smirks at him. “No,” he says and then he slowly, oh so slowly begins to sink down on Chris’s cock, hot and tight and perfect, and Chris fists his hands in the sheets and bites his lip because it’s so good, so _good_ , but it’s not about him. He just has to obey.

Tom sighs as he comes to rest against Chris, body flexing a little as he gets used to Chris’s cock, and then he’s moving again, grinding a low circle against Chris’s hips, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted, and just as it’s starting to feel _really_ good for Chris he stops.

A plaintive whine escapes from Chris and Tom grins nastily. Slowly he lifts himself up, until the very tip of Chris’s cock remains within him and then he slowly grinds his way down again, perfectly in control as Chris sobs and fights the instinct to push up into Tom’s clinging heat. He has to be good, he _has_ to be, but it’s so hard, and for all he’s just lying there, not daring to move, his chest is heaving and he’s drenched in sweat, and his screws his eyes tight shut against the agony and ecstasy building in him.

“I told you to watch,” cuts through his panting and his eyes fly open to see Tom has one hand on his own dick and the other teasing lightly at his balls where they are brushing over Chris’s pubic bone. Tom fucks himself slowly, languidly, one hand roaming over his chest, his nipples, his balls, the other working at his cock, a steady slide along the shaft and a twist at the head, bringing himself pleasure, and this should be Chris’s job, Chris’s purpose, and he moans again, trying to plead, to beg, but succeeding only in choking out plaintive, broken sounds.

Tom ignores him, concentrating only on himself, and he begins to move a faster, building up his pace, long lean thighs flexing as he fucks himself, faster and faster until he is bouncing on Chris’s cock, head thrown back and hand working furiously at his own erection, his only sounds the rasp of his breathing and the slap of his flesh against Chris. His body is clenches around Chris, a sweet drag against his cock, and Chris is overwrought, on the edge, it’s too good, too much, far too much –

“Tom!” Chris forces out, feeling his cock throb against the cock ring, his orgasm so close he can almost taste it.

Tom stops, stock-still, and even though he knew he would, Chris still yelps at the lack, his cry  high and shrill, hips spasming as he tries for more friction. Tom shoves hard at him, holds him down, denies him everything, and the tingling thrill dies back, fades fast, and Chris sobs in frustration.

But then Tom says “Good,” and he sounds pleased for the first time since Chris lied and the rush that unlock in Chris is far, far greater than the orgasm he’s just been denied, and he’ll do anything, anything, to have Tom say it again.

So he lies there, trembling, desperate, and watches, in an agony of bliss, as Tom starts again, as he rides Chris ruthlessly, all power and grace, using Chris as his own personal fucktoy, hard and fast and selfish. Chris chokes out his name again, and then again, and then _again_ as Tom alternates between fucking him fast and slow, furious and languid, until Tom is panting himself, shaking with pleasure, grunting every time he slams himself down on Chris’s cock, wet squelches a counterpoint to his frantic gasps and then he’s coming, covering Chris’s chest and just catching him on the chin.

There’s blood on Chris’s lip from where he’s bitten it, and his jaw and neck aches with how he has gritted his teeth, held himself rigid; his cock is so hard it hurts, and he’s more turned on than he thought possible, hovering on the white edge of pain and pleasure so intense he can barely breathe.

“Tom,” he whimpers, so far good he can’t even cry any more: “Tom, please, I can’t -”

“No,” Tom says, whisper-soft and cruel, and Chris’s breath stutters in his chest. How much longer – how much more will Tom make him suffer – will he keep him like this for hours? Until he’s ready to come again? All night?

The thought is terrifying. But Chris knows he deserves this, knows he has brought this punishment on himself, and so he locks his needs and demands and whines behind his teeth and stays still, keeps his eyes open, and waits for instruction, his whole being focused not on himself but on Tom, who is watching him intently.

“Do you want to come?” Tom says.

“Yes,” Chris hisses.

“And what will you do if I don’t let you?”

Chris stares at him. No more lies. “Suffer,” he says, voice scratchy and raw. “Obey.”

“That’s right,” Tom says, grinning his shark’s grin. “Little whore. Because you are mine and you will do exactly what I say.”

“Yes,” Chris promises, voice and body shaking.

“Good,” Tom says, and Chris bucks involuntarily; “Good boy.” He leans forward, arching over Chris so that his face fills his vision, so that Tom’s face is all he can see, rolling his hips, and Chris can’t keep the moan of pleasure in, the joy of being praised spreading through him like liquid honey, sweet and rich, mingling with the wildfire need burning through his blood and centred in his cock as Tom grinds against him. “ _Now_ you may come.”

And Chris does, the scream that has been building all this time erupting from him as he pours himself into Tom, and it goes on and on, impossibly intense, all the frustrations and delay hurling him into a tidal wave of sheer fucking pleasure as his orgasm rips through him.

Moments or hours later, when it’s over, as the shuddering joy recedes to sated bliss, Chris cannot seem to move as Tom slides off of him and kisses him lightly on the forehead before beginning to clean them up. Chris drinks thirstily from the bottle Tom offers him, but then collapses back onto the bed as the soaking wet cock ring is finally removed, along with the stockings he’d completely forgotten he was wearing.

“Good?” Tom asks when he’s done, pushing Chris’s sweat-tangled hair from his face. “Not too much?”

“No, ’m good, ’m great,” Chris says, the words seemingly coming from a long way away. “S’good.”

“Good,” Tom says, smiling. “Next time, you can wear the black shirt over the bra, and if you’re good, and you keep it all on all day, we’ll go out for dinner, like I planned for tonight.”

“Yes,” Chris slurs.

“Because tonight,” Tom says, bending forward to kiss Chris’s cheek, “I was going to send you to the bathroom and make you take off your pretty little panties, so you could work that vibrating plug you’re so fond of between your cheeks, and I was going to make you come back to our table with it throbbing in your tight little arse. We were going to have a lovely, _long_ evening out, and all the while you’d be good and wet and open for me, and waiting, just waiting for the moment that I would bend you over and fuck you senseless. And you would have had no idea when or where it would be, until I yanked the plug out and filled you up with my cock.”

Despite his languor Chris shudders with desire. Oh, God, yes. Yes, yes, _yes_ –

“My darling little princess,” Tom says fondly, patting him on the head. “We won’t be lying again, will we?”


	27. Threesome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **29\. Threesome/group sex**  
>  Chris Hemsworth/Tom Hiddleston, Italian Renaissance AU, Medici Tom (Tomas) x Borgais Chris (Cristoforo), virginity kink, first time, repressed desire, prostitution, not really a threesome tbh  
> For marty-mc and junesoul - [see Marty's art here!](http://marty-mc.tumblr.com/tagged/borgia%2Fmedici-AU)

It will be a long night, and Cristoforo’s heart sinks at the thought.

“My lord, I – I am not certain that I – that we -”

Cristoforo dismisses Tomás’ stammering with a wave of his hand. “You have often spoken to me of art,” he says, affecting a carelessness at odds with the coiled tension vibrating within him. “In order to become a great artist, it is not enough to simply study form and composition, to only admire the great masters. You must also practice your technique, each and every day, yes?”

“Yes, but -”

“This too is an art,” Cristoforo continues, ignoring Tomás’ fluttering hands. “A way to study and understand the human body. We must strive for knowledge and understanding in all things, Tomás. This is how we become great men.”

“I will never be a great man,” Tomás demurs, blushing furiously. The flush of colour spreading across his alabaster skin is a work of art in its own right, and Cristoforo can imagine sketching him so, capturing the way he chews his bottom lip, curls falling forward as he lowers his gaze. “Not like you, my lord.”

“Still,” Cristoforo says firmly, tearing his own gaze from Tomás’ body. “You are a man, and so you should have knowledge of a woman. It is not right that you are still…ignorant, at your age.”

“It is a sin,” Tomás says miserably, turning even further away from the naked woman sprawled on the bed, face creased in amusement at Tomás’ virginal embarrassment.

It is a poor excuse in this most worldly of cities; every young lord, of church or council chamber sins enthusiastically and openly every damn night and all know it. Tomás’ pleading eyes and perfect trust are more a sin in Cristoforo’s book, or, to be accurate, more the invitation to a sin far more abhorrent to the church than that of common fornication.

A youth so beautiful, so pure, and so obviously uninterested in women…the whispers have already started, and while certain little peccadillos might be tolerated, so long as they remain mere rumour, the talk around the pretty young Medici so taken with the Borgia scion is drifting closer to accusation and that cannot be borne.

So, here they are: the best brothel in the city, the finest courtesan, ready and willing to relieve Tomás of the burden of his chastity and yet…the moment Cristoforo tries to leave them to it, Tomás baulks.

“I know well I am ignorant,” Tomás whispers, sidling away from Esperanza and towards Cristoforo. “I know nothing, my Lord. Please, do not make me -”

“You must know the mechanics, at least,” Cristoforo snaps, his carefully unexamined frustration fraying his temper. “Have you not seen the dogs in the street?”

Tomás visibly flinches at his tone. “I would not be a dog, my lord,” he says with quiet dignity. “I would not shame myself before you. I have not your experience.”

Cristoforo closes his eyes before he can groan. It would be so easy to – but no. He must not compromise himself further.

Esperanza chuckles and Cristoforo flashes her a look. She is a favourite of his, but it is not her place to take liberties. She meets it unafraid, laughter bubbling in her eyes. “Perhaps my lord could instruct his friend?” she suggests, gesturing idly from Cristoforo to Tomás. “Share with him the benefit of his years of _artistic practice_?”

Cristoforo shakes his head; too dangerous, far too dangerous –

“Yes,” Tomás breathes, head coming up at last. “Oh, please, my lord. Tell me – tell me what I should do.”

This is a mistake, a terrible mistake, and yet – it is not the worst mistake he could be making in this secluded room with this adoring boy.

“Very well,” Cristoforo allows, choosing a chair near the bed and settling himself into it. “Since we are failing to address the problem by any other means.”

“Thank you,” Tomás says, eyelashes sweeping down as he drops a tiny bow, the fool, the darling.

“It would be a good start to remove your clothes,” Cristoforo says dryly, very aware of Esperanza’s sniggering. “Yes?”

He half expects Tomás to clutch at his shirt like a virtuous maiden, but they have been half-dressed in each other’s company many times before, in circumstances both dire and playful, and Tomás shucks his clothes swiftly enough. He does hesitate a little over his underthings, still pleasingly pink about the cheeks, but soon enough he stands naked and glorious – and apparently underwhelmed by Esperanza’s lush curves. He shifts his weight, looking awkwardly from Esperanza to Cristoforo.

Cristoforo sighs and tries to convince himself it is in irritation only. “Take yourself in hand,” he says as tonelessly as he can. “Ready yourself.”

Tomás flushes a deep cherry red at that, but he does take a hand to his soft, plump cock, nestled in its thatch of blonde curls. Cristoforo licks his lips as unobtrusively as he can. Tomás teases at his flesh, breath loud in the quiet of the room, and both Esperanza and Cristoforo watch avidly as his cock begins to swell and rise, standing proud as Tomás’ hand moves quickly, coaxing himself to full arousal.

“My lord?” he says breathily as his hand moves and the rosy head emerges from his foreskin, and Cristoforo swallows a groan.

“This first time, we shall practice the basic form,” he says, striving for a schoolmaster’s tone. There will be time for Esperanza to teach Tomás the finer points of loveplay later, once he has awoken to the delights of a woman’s body and Cristoforo can escape the heat and terrible longing of this room. “Esperanza?”

“I am ready,” she says, far more openly staring at Tomás’ delicate beauty, his flushed cock curving over his belly, angelic in his innocence. She lies down on her back and spreads her legs, happy enough to act the canvas for this first sketch, exposing the ripe bloom of her sex for Tomás and Cristoforo.

The sight stirs Cristoforo as it always has, a ripe and juicy peach to be devoured and enjoyed, but Tomás stirs him further still, hand still moving on his cock as he looks to Cristoforo, waiting for instruction. Surely he must know what to do here, but he wants Cristoforo’s instruction, his guidance, as he does in all things, and the power and trust he places in Cristoforo is as sweet as wine and far more maddening.

“Enter her,” Cristoforo says, drinking in the sight of Tomás’ nudity, only glimpsed in part before now. He is perfect, utterly perfect, and all Cristoforo wants is to mar that luminous beauty, taint him with the worst corruption as he tastes his sweetness. Eve’s apple could have been no more tempting.

And Tom obeys, with the nervousness of a wild thing brought to bay, and Cristoforo wishes – he wishes it were he who – but no, this is as it must be, and so he contents himself with watching the slow slide of Tomás’ cock into Esperanza, the shock and dawning desire on Tomás’ face as he is gripped by her wet heat, as he takes a woman for the first time.

“Like – ah! – like this?” Tomás pants, luminous eyes flickering to Cristoforo, plush pink lips parting as he gasps, as he instinctively ruts into her.

“Yes,” Cristoforo rumbles, shifting in his chair to lean forward, hands clasped before him, eyes fixed on the curve of Tomás’s spine, the beads of sweat along his collarbone. “Slower – slower, yes, that’s it.”

Tomás bites his lip again, eyes falling shut, and he clenches his fists in the silk sheets as he slows, hips rolling smoothly, thighs trembling. “My lord,” he moans, “My lord – I can’t – do I -”

“No,” Cristoforo says softly, knowing exactly what he means. “No faster, Tomás. If you would do this right, you must learn self-control.”

Tomás moans but obeys, pulling back and sliding in at a torturously slow pace, and Esperanza makes some soft sound of pleasure as encouragement.

They do not hear her. Cristoforo inhales deeply, holding himself taut against the tremor beneath his skin. Tomás is so beautiful in the candlelight, pale skin drenched in a rich honey glow, blonde curls haloed by the light, and yet he looks so awkward, brow pinched as he rocks into the woman beneath him.

“That’s good,” Cristoforo murmurs, the words escaping with his shuddering breath. “So good, Tomás, just like that. Good boy.”

He can see the quiver in Tomás’ thighs at his words, hear his soft ‘ah’ at the praise, and he wants so badly to reach out, to lay his hand on Tomás’ narrow hip, to guide him properly and to slide his palm over the flat stomach, feel the muscles jump beneath his fingertips as he moves lower –

Tomás whimpers and Cristoforo jerks back as if scalded, realising he is half out of his chair already. Esperanza is watching him with a curiously fond expression but he cannot look her in the face.

“My lord,” she says in the quiet, “there is more to this art than simple rutting. Will you not show him how to bring me to my own release?”

Sweat prickles at Cristoforo’s collar and there is a heavy weight on his chest, but he moves forward jerkily, his usual grace hard to find tonight. He settles on the edge of the bed, facing Tomás, who has stilled completely and is looking at him trustingly.

“What should I do?” he asks, flushed and glowing, bitten lips just begging to be kissed.

“Touch her,” Cristoforo replies, voice like gravel.

Tomás glances down at where he is joined with Esperanza and frowns. “Here?” he asks hesitantly, placing a single fingertip on her folds.

Esperanza rolls her eyes and mutters something in Spanish under her breath, but she spreads her legs a little wider to allow Cristoforo to lean over and replace Tomás’ finger with his own.

“Like this,” he says, stroking lightly over her clit and teasing her slick lips. He does not look at Tomás as his hand moves lower still, circling around where she is stretched around Tomás’ cock, careful not to even brush against Tomás’ hardness. Tomás is trembling as he completes a slow circuit and moves higher again to begin stroking her clit with more purpose, rubbing a slow circle over the sensitive nub of flesh.

Esperanza sighs something that sounds like ‘finally’, but Cristoforo is focused on Tomás’ blown pupils and guileless expression. “Like this,” he says softly, and Tomás obediently reaches down to copy him. “Now move,” Cristoforo purrs, “slowly. This is a work of art, remember, not a foot race.”

Tomás does as he is bid, somewhat clumsily, it must be said, and Cristoforo brings his hand over Tomás’, helps him to keep pleasing Esperanza as he grinds into her, conscious of the softness of Tomás’ skin and the faint tang of his sweat – and arousal. “Good,” Cristoforo says, mouth dry but voice steady, “good.” 

Tomás’ hips jerk and he makes a choking noise. “My lord,” he gasps, voice cracking, “oh, please, please -”

It is his first time, Cristoforo remembers. His own had lasted a bare few minutes, though he had been much younger. He cannot expect too much – not this time.

“Faster then,” he says, taking over the stimulation of Esperanza, whose own breathing is starting to quicken and catch. “Harder.”

Tomás grits his teeth, brow creasing, and starts to fuck in earnest, raw and still clumsy, shoving hopelessly, helplessly into Esperanza’s wet heat, chasing his own pleasure. “Oh,” he says, sounding surprised, eyes squeezed shut and colour high, “oh, I -”

“Yes,” Cristoforo growls, only inches away, watching avidly as Tomás whimpers and moans, body flexing, his hand busy between Esperanza’s legs, feeling both of them buck and squirm, heat roaring through his own body as he watches Tomás fuck her. It is torture, watching Tomás find such joy in another, it is agony, it is ecstasy, and he wishes it could last forever, Tomás’ cries and straining muscles as glorious as any work of art – but Tomás is young and untried and in but a few moments he is coming, beautiful and perfect and –

“Cristoforo!”

\- _calling Cristoforo’s name_.

Cristoforo fancies himself a good man, on his way to becoming a great man, but he has never claimed to be a saint nor a monk, and there is only so much he can stand.

“Tomás,” he snarls and as those bright eyes fly open he surges forward and crushes his mouth to Tomás’, swallows down his cry and kisses him as filthily and thoroughly as he knows how.

“Good,” Esperanza says over the roaring of his blood as Tomás melts into him, opens up and meets his tongue with his own, throat vibrating with faint whimpers, and she sounds pleased even though Cristoforo has quite selfishly abandoned her before her own release. Tomás makes a choked noise and as Cristoforo reluctantly releases him he sees that Esperanza has eased herself free and shifted further up the bed, legs splayed open and hand working steadily at her own clit.

“Go on,” she says, eyes bright as she watches them, “foolish boys. Go on.”

Tomás is staring at him half-dazed with desire, understanding unfurling in his face, and Cristoforo does not care how damned he may be. He cannot deny himself this.

“Come here,” he says, in too much of a hurry to bother with his clothes, simply tugging enough aside that he can release his throbbing cock. He has no better hope of lasting than Tomás now, not with the open joy suffusing Tomás’ gentle smile.

“Cristoforo,” he says again, ducking his head a little shyly, and Cristoforo’s patience snaps entirely.

“Come here,” he commands and a shiver flits over Tomás as he obeys, climbing into Cristoforo’s lap, pliant and loose limbed, cock still damp and half-hard even now. “Touch me,” he says desperately. “Now, my Tomás.”

Tomás is far more confident here and he closes his hand over Cristoforo’s cock with barely a flicker of the hesitation he had shown with Esperanza’s body. Truthfully, he is not really any better skilled, but his enthusiasm more than makes up for that, and the warm weight of him in Cristoforo’s lap and his sweet lips brushing over Cristoforo’s open mouth is more thrilling than any of the courtesans’ exotic techniques have ever been.

“You are so beautiful,” Tomás is saying, “like art, Cristoforo, like sculpture and song and the great works, and yet I am permitted to touch you, like this,” and the wonder in his voice is so pure and so genuine that Cristoforo cannot hold on and spends himself in a great shuddering rush.

As he slumps, the rush of pleasure far outweighing his doubts and fears over what he has done, he remembers himself enough to look to Esperanza, conscious of his rudeness with her – but she has clearly reached her peak without them, and is watching with a wicked smile.

“Now,” Esperanza says, “the lessons begin in earnest, my boys,” and oh, there is a reason he has favoured her so long. “Tomás, come here, by me. Let me show you what our lord likes best.”

It will be a long night, and Cristoforo’s heart sings at the thought.


	28. Wildcard! In Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Wildcard! In heat**  
>  Thor/Loki, heat trope, intersex Loki, marathon sex, facial  
> So it's been too long since I did one of these and I'm determined to get to 30 fills - so here is a wildcard, a trope that I associate with the Thorki fandom: intersex Loki in heat :3 Written quick and dirty, so sorry for errors etc.

The air is syrup-thick, heavy with the promise of thunder. Sickly, metallic light washes from the bruised sky, scattering in front of the looming clouds, the wind stirring faintly enough to carry the taste of coming rain, but not enough to bring any kind of relief from the settled, stifling heat. A summer heatstorm; the kind of weather which sets the dogs to howling and men running mad.

“Again,” Loki says, tugging, clawing at Thor’s sweat-stained and trembling limbs. “Hurry.”

Thor would groan, if he had the breath; as it is, he merely shakes his head wearily.

“I cannot,” he says, the words clumsy and ill-formed. “Loki…”

“Again,” Loki insists, head falling back as he squirms beneath him.

Once a century, even the coldest blood runs hot; a failsafe, perhaps, to move the slowest and most sluggish of Winter’s children to seek a mate, to rut and breed, to keep the race alive. An ancient instinct, but strong, as the oldest compulsions are wont to be, and one even a halfbreed runt cannot escape, nor bind with seidr.

Perhaps, on Jotunheim, it comes in the deepest depths of winter, to many at once, that the fallow time of sleep and fast might be turned to new life in time for spring. Or perhaps it afflicts them in a pattern unique to each, one succumbing and his fellows tending, in cycles and waves, so that not too many are fallen into madness at any one time. Thor does not know, and neither of them would be granted answers if they were foolish enough to find a jotun to ask.

In any case, it is in both Thor and Loki’s nature to be perverse, to be drawn to the forbidden, to the knife edge of chaos, whether there to dance or defend. And so here they are, in the dog days of late summer, locked in the highest, most secluded tower room Thor could find, and here they will stay, until Loki’s heat has run its course.

The water is gone, and all the food; their clothes are long since ruined and the bed broken, and the room reeks of sweat and come and oil and, most of all, _Loki_.

He smells of musk, thick and faintly sour, but somehow also of snow and blood, a crisp, metallic tang, and yet there is honey there too, peach-blossom and azalea, faintly sweet and cloying. It is the scent that arrives first, before the desire, the blown pupils and frantic kisses, the ripe wetness between his thighs. Whatever the scent is, it lingers, perfuming the air as he walks, causing puzzle eyes of all species to turn him, not quite knowing why, pausing, inhaling, stepping closer to what is Thor’s – but it is only Thor who knows the taste of it, the way it spreads over Loki’s skin, mingles with his sweat and spend and slickness, the way it drives Thor on past all reason.

Now, Thor is slumped over Loki, his legs still wound tight around Thor’s waist, refusing to let him go. Thor pants, exhausted, sticky and sore, his cock still buried in Loki’s cunt, seed staining Loki’s thighs. He has always prided himself on his endurance, but this – this is beyond madness.

Yet Loki is undulating against him, unsatisfied yet again, his cock thick and proud above where they are joined together, still drooling precome to add to the mess smeared over his stomach. And for all his protests, when Thor drops his head, snatching a weary breath against Loki’s neck, he cannot help but inhale that musky scent and his cock twitches.

Loki gives a soft ‘ah’, and locks his ankles.

Between Loki’s scent and the weight of the coming storm, it is hard to breathe; between the burn in his body and the flickering flame in his blood, it is hard to speak, but he tries.

“We must – rest –” he manages, as Loki rocks against him, making the most obscene noises as Thor’s thickening cock slides in the slick mess of come within him. “Loki – rest –”

Loki rumbles, low in his chest, half a purr and half a growl, but definitely a ‘no’.

Perhaps the jötnar are built to endure this; perhaps the heat burns hotter, runs swifter, in their icy flesh. Perhaps it is because Loki clings to his Asgardian skin even now that his heat lasts so long, or perhaps it is Thor’s strangeness, his alien nature that pushes Loki’s body into this, keeps him burning up for lack of a jotun mate. They have so little knowledge, and Loki never wants to speak of it.

“Again,” Loki pants in his ear, nails raising crescent welts over Thor’s bruised flesh, voice rough with desire. “Thor, brother, _please_.”

Thor closes his eyes and presses a kiss to Loki’s pale skin, licking over the bite marks and lapping at the pooled sweat. The scent and taste of the heat explodes on his tongue, and he feels himself stir again. He is so drained it is almost painful, a sweet agony as his cock rises and he can push further in, Loki shuddering against him. Black spots dance before his eyes, dizziness swamping him, but it is good, so good, and Loki keens softly to him as he pulls back and fucks back in until he is fully seated again.

“I need you,” Loki sobs, wracked and half-mad and, Thor needs to believe, honest as he never would be outside this room, soaring so high on need and endorphins that the truth pours from him just as his climax does. “Thor, my Thor, mine, oh, I – I need to come, Thor, again, again -”

 _I will take care of you_ , Thor wants to say. _Trust me, have faith in me, let me be yours_ – but he cannot spare the breath for words and besides, if Loki does not know his heart by now, promises spoken in the heat of lust will not convince him. Deeds must count for all.

After so long a fucking – or after so many fuckings, Thor cannot say where one ends and another begins – Thor knows well what will please Loki best, what will coax one more climax from his struggling body. Their more adventurous couplings lie in the past; this far into the heat, neither have the energy they had at the start, nor the stamina, and so it is slow and gentle that Loki needs now.

Thor shifts himself up, getting his knees under him, pulling Loki further on to his lap, so that he can fuck him without having to support himself on his hands. Loki’s legs are still locked around him, and he holds himself flush against Thor easily. Like this, Thor can roll his hips, setting an easy, languid pace, ignoring Loki’s half-hearted attempts to make him move faster. He must bat aside Loki’s roaming hands to reach his cock, and he rubs the pad of his thumb over the head, spreading the precome further. Loki gives an inarticulate whine and slumps back, hands falling to his side, hips canting up, pushing himself into Thor.

“Easy,” Thor murmurs, keeping his rhythm, and Loki subsides. A good sign; perhaps this climax will push Loki over the edge and into the sleep they both desperately need, and perhaps then his heat will finally be over.

Thor slicks his palm with Loki’s copious precome and forms a loose fist around Loki’s cock, stroking in the same slow rhythm as his thrusts, up and down, swiping his thumb across the head on each pass. Loki moans and his hands scrabble at the floor.

Thor smiles and lifts his other hand from Loki’s hip, teasing at the base of Loki’s cock before stroking the smooth skin between it and his cunt. Loki is sensitive here, and he rubs soft circles into this spot as Loki sighs.

A little lower, and he has another treasure: Loki’s clit, plump and wet, and he repeats his slow, light circles over the tender flesh, light and teasing. It’s awkward for him, trying to keep both hands moving and thrust at the same time, but he’s never turned down a challenge and Loki’s breathy moans are well worth the effort. He will admit to being less co-ordinated now than he was at the start, but Loki does not seem to mind, and he focuses on stroking his clit, feeling his thighs quiver, letting his cock rest in Loki’s wet heat and closing his fist over the head of Loki’s cock.

Slow, slow and gentle, but again, and again and again, and Loki’s moans are rising to cries, and he drops his legs to the floor to give himself leverage, so he can grind against Thor, his hips working in the same circles as Thor’s fingers, his cock smearing slick against Thor’s palm as his own efforts pay off there too. He is beautiful, so beautiful, lost in desire, lip caught between his teeth, sweat beading on his brow and Thor bends forward to kiss his stomach, feeling the muscles in his abdomen leap and clench as he works himself against Thor.

“That’s it,” Thor coaxes, panting himself, “that’s it, Loki,” his fingers moving faster, stroking more firmly at Loki’s clit, grunting as Loki clenches down on his cock. He’s being wound tighter, climbing higher, and he is wet, so wet, both cock and cunt slick and sweet, and Thor’s flagging desire roars back to life. “Come for me,” he says, unable to resist fucking into Loki’s cunt, just a little, watching Loki’s eyes fly open and his gaze focus on Thor. “Come on, brother, again, for me.”

Loki’s mouth opens but he’s panting hard, chest heaving, and his hips buck up harder, jolting him further on Thor’s cock. His legs are shaking and his whole body shuddering, spasming, nearly at breaking point, so close but not quite there.

Thor stops dead.

Loki _screams_ at him, pure rage and frustration, pushing up, desperate for more – and Thor bears down, pushes him flat and then fucks him, hard, short, punishing strokes, before bringing his fingers back, dancing over his clit, closing tightly around the head of his cock.

Loki’s scream turns to a wail and he comes, bucking and thrashing, cock spurting weakly as he empties the last of his seed into Thor’s hand, his cunt clamping tight around Thor as slickness gushes between his thighs. he slumps immediately, worn out, everything wrung from him once more.

There is no hesitation in Thor now, only desperate, driving need, and yet with Loki so boneless, so over-sensitive beneath him, a fast, hard rut will not do. Thor eases himself out and notes Loki’s wince as the accumulated seed begins to flow out of him; well-fucked indeed. His own hand it will be then.

He sits back on his heels, muscles protesting at the change in position, and grips his cock firmly. Hard and fast, and then, with any luck, he can sleep at last.

“Here,” Loki says, faint but firm. “Come here.” He makes a limp beckoning movement, and Thor moves up to his face.

“I ask nothing of you,” Thor says, exhaustion and need warring in him. “Rest, Loki, please.”

“I am resting,” Loki says, slow and slurred. “But I want more. I want you to come on my face.”

Thor blinks. “What?”

“I _want_ ,” Loki says, a little sharper, “to taste you. Smell you. Mark me. Now.”

This is new. But the thought stirs him, to make Loki his as he has been so thoroughly made Loki’s. He settles over Loki, legs spread wide so he sit atop Loki’s chest but not rest his weight there, rising up on his knees and holding his cock pointing at Loki’s face. Loki watches him from half-lidded eyes, tongue flickering out to lick his lips. Thor needs no more encouragement.

His cock is soaked with Loki’s lust and his own previous spendings, and he has never been a patient man. He closes his fist around his cock and tugs hard, sighing at the friction, the ache wavering between pleasure and pain. His balls feel must be empty, yet they are drawn up tight, and Loki’s heat-scent still lingers in the room. He thinks of all the ways he has had him these past few days: Loki on his hands on knees, head pressed to the floor, moaning for him; Loki swallowing frantically around his cock as Thor lapped at his cunt, one hand tight on Loki’s cock and the other sliding into his hole; Loki in his lap, fucking himself down onto Thor, howling as he came; Loki begging and pleading, Loki demanding, shoving at Thor’s head, yanking on his hair; Loki tired, so tired, but gasping for him, entwined together side-by-side, Thor slowly rocking into him; Loki writhing on his fingers, Loki’s thighs clamped around his face, Loki spread out beneath him, just like this, swearing all he wants is Thor, all he needs is Thor, Loki crying out his name –

Thor comes with a groan, the release sharp and sudden like a bowstring breaking, his seed pulsing sluggishly from his cock, striping Loki’s neck and chin and face. Loki inhales deeply, running a finger through the mess and touching it to his mouth. He smiles.

“At last,” he says, smug and perhaps even satisfied, and Thor collapses next to him, too tired to even admire how good Loki looks like this.

Outside, the rain arrives with a sudden flash of lightning, thunder cracking overhead as the downpour drums against the roofs and streets, a muted roar of water and wind. The heat has broken, and Thor slips into sleep as Loki curls into him, the air fresher, clearer, with the faintest hint of the season’s turning carried in its eddies and whorls.

 


	29. Wildcard! Masturbation + Mjolnir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fill 28. Wildcard! Masturbation + Mjolnir**
> 
> Thor/Loki, bottom Thor, voyeurism, masturbating with Mjolnir, set pre-canon
> 
> For [ThorLoki week](http://thorlokiweek.tumblr.com)! And really not at all fitting the prompt 'pre-Thor (2011)' but please pretend it does :3

Thor is not certain how he came to be in this position, but one thing is clear. It is all Loki’s fault.

“Mmm, brother. You look…well. See for yourself.”

If Loki’s smile were any sharper, he would cut himself with it. But Thor does as he’s told and looks from Loki to the mirror propped against the wall, the mirror he has been ignoring during his…preparations.

In the dead silence of the room, his gasp echoes like a hurricane.

“I owe you an apology, it seems,” Loki says, stepping into view behind him, his reflection as smug as Thor have ever seen him. “It seems that Mjolnir _is_ all you could ever need.”

An obvious bait, and yet Thor had fallen for it: how could he have known that Loki could twist such simple words into such a noose? He shifts his weight, just a little, and this time his choked-off cry bounces off the walls.

Loki licks his lips.

“Move,” he says, voice shaking with excitement. “Show me how well you take it.”

Thor flushes hot at that, but excitement thrums through him, a spark ignited by that brief movement, and so he tenses his thighs, rises up and lets himself sink back down, exhaling a long, shaky breath as he does so. He fancies he can feel every ribbed inch of Mjolnir’s shaft, impossibly thick inside him, and he cannot take his eyes from his own reflection, watching the handle of his beloved hammer disappearing into his body.

“Lift up your balls,” Loki says, looming over him. “I want to see.”

Thor rises again, until only the tip is inside him, and reaches for his half-hard cock and balls, lifting them up with hand and rolling them in his palm. It feels good, it feels so good, and even better as he fucks himself back down onto Mjolnir, watching his hole clench around the sopping wet leather .

Loki puts his hands on Thor’s shoulders and bends down so he can whisper in Thor’s ear. “Fuck yourself on your hammer,” he says, his eyes meeting Thor’s in the mirror. “Fuck yourself good and hard. You look so good, brother. Let’s both watch you come like this.”

Thor looks at himself, dripping with sweat already, body tense and trembling, for it had taken some long work to open himself up enough to take the thickness of the shaft, at his rising cock, flushed a deep red at the head and shining with pre-come. He looks at Loki, at his wild eyes and where his fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders.

Thor grins, a slow, sultry smirk. He _does_ look good. And if he is to be undone by Loki, he will do his damnedest to give as good as he gets.

He sets a slow pace, getting used to the pressure and burn inside, the unfamiliar hugeness of the handle settling to a satisfying fullness as he lifts and falls, grinding a little harder, pushing a little further. Loki seems mesmerised by the sight, by the blunt silver head between his pale thighs, the soft inner flesh milky and moonlit compared to the burnished gold of his chest and shoulders. It is easy enough to trail the hand not holding his balls high over his chest, fingertips sliding in the sweat pooling there, to tease at his nipples, hissing lightly as he rolls them between his fingers and pinches, a sudden flash of pain that makes the drag of the handle even sweeter.

“Tease,” Loki says, burred and low, and Thor could laugh at how outraged he sounds, as if he alone had a monopoly on driving people to distraction. He wonders for a moment if Loki will slap his hand away and take over himself – but no, his brother must read the thought in his face, for he shakes his head and affects a haughty expression. “You said you did not need my help, oh _mighty_ Thor. So you will not be getting it.”

Did he say that? Loki hordes such throwaway comments for weeks, for months: Thor honestly cannot remember saying any such thing. Was it during a fight? Did he try to shield Loki, say some foolish thing about needing only Mjolnir to keep him safe? Has Loki been plotting this ever since?

Quite probably, knowing Loki. But if Loki thinks this a punishment, oh, he is so very, very wrong. For as Thor slides one hand down his chest, skimming over his taut stomach and lower, to palm at his heavy cock, it is Loki watching him like a starving wolf, all but slavering in his hunger, pressed tightly against Thor’s back as he stares at the mirror. Thor lets his cock slide through his fist as he moves a little faster, riding Mjolnir in earnest, panting heavily as he is filled and emptied at his own pace, and he lets his eyes fall closed as he does so, concentrates on the dual sensation, on the throb in his cock and the faint hum he can feel even now, every time he sinks down and comes to rest on the hammer’s head –

Now _there’s_ an idea. Mjolnir is fat enough to be rubbing in all the right places inside, but she lacks the warmth of Loki’s cock, and has not the dexterity of his fingers. But, of course, she has other talents, one’s that are Thor’s own.

It takes some concentrating, what with pleasure hazing his thoughts, arousal hot and heavy in his belly and his cock aching more and more with each thrust, but he reaches for the restless energy coiled within Mjolnir’s heart, feels her pulse in response, and so, with the lightest of touches, he calls up a storm-sliver, lightning’s purr rather than her roar –

Loki’s gasp is more than worth the effort as electricity crackles over them both, sizzling along Thor’s skin and arcing between them, dancing along his fingers and sparking over Loki’s, tiny pinpricks of sensation, sharp and sweet and _hot_. He grunts at each light shock, teasing at his cockhead with tingling fingers, letting the power build, lightning surging in Mjolnir, her head beginning to glow as the storm swells. The lightning writhes over him, lifting his hair into a halo, sparks swelling in his eyes, but it is Mjolnir he’s focusing on, for the lightning is dancing along the shaft, making it throb and hum, unleashing wave upon wave of sensations that have him seeing stars.

His hips jerk suddenly and he cries out at it, does it again, and again, and the lightning fades as his concentration shatters, as all he can think about is the pressure within, the thick shaft penetrating him and the shuddering pleasure building low in his belly. He fucks himself harder and faster, body loose and open, and he pulls at his cock with real purpose, gasping as he climbs towards orgasm. He can see himself in the mirror, mouth open, body slick and straining, his arms and thighs bunched thick with muscle as he works himself on Mjolnir, and even to his own eyes he is a vision of decadence and need.

Loki watches him watch himself, teeth bared, face twisted in a feral hunger, as if he would devour Thor, tear him apart and swallow him up, eyes huge and dark in his lean face. Thor knows this hunger well and it sparks a low throb in him to see his own possessiveness reflected on his little brother’s face, to see so pure a want behind Loki’s façade. Loki delights in his touch, his body and his attention, but it is one thing to soak up pleasure given and to chase your own satisfaction in someone else’s flesh, and entirely another to have such a keen appetite for watching your lover’s pleasure without indulging your own. Loki is a selfish man, but this is a selfishness that settles over Thor like a balm, soothing the thousand stinging cuts Loki likes to inflict on him each day: Loki wants _him_ , pure and simple, and though Thor has offered him everything, this is what he has chosen. Thor, in the throes of his own passion, coming undone before him.

“Come ,” Loki says, his hands still locked on Thor’s shoulders and Thor throws his head back, looks up into Loki’s face. Without taking his eyes from the mirror, Loki releases a hand and takes Thor by the chin, pulling his head back down. “Watch yourself come,” he says, bitterness coating his words like acid. “See what I see. See your glory. See how _perfect_ you truly are. Even like this.”

But Thor has other ideas. “Brother,” he says, fixated on the reflection of Loki’s face. “I see only you,” and he sees the flinch, sees the hit land, and moves in for the kill. “Loki,” he says, voice breaking as pleasure sweeps upside him, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, barely able to lift himself up as his thighs clench and his orgasm ripples up from his balls and flashes along his cock. “Loki,” he groans, locking eyes with his brother as his climax rips through him. “ _Loki_!” he cries as his release spatters across the mirror and he slumps, Mjolnir quivering inside him, aftershocks tingling through him, still watching Loki, at the play of emotion across his face, at the dark stain spreading across Loki’s leggings, outlining his straining cock.

“You are wrong, brother,” Thor rumbles, breath fogging across the mirror. “Mjolnir is _not_ all I need.”

Thor slowly gets to his feet, wincing as he eases himself from the hammer shaft. So he can lean against the mirror and look at Loki over his shoulder.

Loki looks at him – at _him_ , not at his reflection, not at the fantasy he has built – with wide eyes, startled into sudden vulnerability.

“Fuck me,” Thor says, his smile soft and welcoming as he spreads his legs. “And let _me_ watch over _you_.”

 


	30. Wildcard! Loki clones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wildcard! Loki clones**
> 
> Thor/Loki, mildly Loki/Loki, orgasm denial, light bondage, foursome, bottom!Thor, top!Thor, Loki being a shit
> 
> For [sailorstar-akimia](http://sailorstar-akimia.tumblr.com) and [klayr-de-gall](http://klayr-de-gall.tumblr.com), who asked for Thor x Loki clones. I'm so sorry this not actually what either of you wanted, but I hope you enjoy anyway?

“I have a game in mind,” Loki announces, quite casually, at dinner; Thor hastily swallows his boar meat before his brother can get much further, remembering that the last casual suggestion at the table had him choking on chicken bones in sheer shock. He also remembers, however, how much fun was had after the choking incident, and so it is with an expectant grin that he leans in close to better hear Loki’s latest idea.

“Take my hand,” Loki says, eyes bright with barely-supressed glee and Thor dutifully does so. Loki’s hand is cool to the touch and closes tightly around his: sweet, but unremarkable.

“And?” Thor prompts after a moment.

Loki flashes him a wicked smile. “Come find me,” he says and then he is gone, in a flicker of golden light.

 _Teleporting?_ Thor guesses, as the familiar touch of Loki’s skin melts away into nothingness, a wondrous trick if Loki has managed it, but not one of much use in bedsport. Well, whatever Loki means to do with this new talent, he knows where to find him now.

Thor excuses himself swiftly and strides away, excitement speeding his steps. Sure enough, her finds Loki just as he expected to: lolling splay-legged and naked atop velvet cushions, a vision of decadent abandon.

He _also_ finds him sprawled invitingly on his bed, kicking his heels in the air while another Loki cards his fingers through his hair, the pair of them smirking just as beatifically as the Loki in the carved chair opposite the bed.

“…brother?” Thor says, looking from one to other. They are all flawless, beautifully so, and all equally insufferable in their smugness.

The Lokis on the bed leave off stroking each other and slink over to him, taking up a place on either side of him. Thor looks at each and then at the third. “You know I appreciate your little displays,” Thor says to him, taking a chance and assuming the seated figure is his actual brother. “But we have played this game before.”

“Have we?” says the Loki on his left, pressing a kiss to Thor’s cheek and Thor turns, irritated at being caught out.

“Loki -”

“Not like this,” breathes the one on his right, squeezing his bicep, and Thor twists, startled – wait –

The third Loki laughs at his confusion and Thor turns his gaze back to him.

“You have made your illusions solid to the touch,” he says in awe as the other two Lokis giggle and start tugging at his armour. “How in all the realms -”

“Far too much hard work,” Loki – the real Loki, Thor is sure – answers, tilting his head and watching his clones – his selves? – strip Thor of his underthings.

“How long can you do this?” Thor asks, catching the roaming hand of the closest clone and squeezing it, marvelling at the solid reality of the illusion. “How many can you make?”

“Only these two for now,” Loki answers as the clone in front of Thor nips playfully at his fingers. “And for an hour at best. It is far more taxing than my usual spellcraft, so they shan’t be talking much, I’m afraid.”

An hour? Barely enough time for all Thor has in mind, but it will have to do this first time. He releases the clone’s hand to catch him by the face, stroking the pad of his thumb over the familiar cheekbones. The clone turns his face into the caress and licks a wet and warm tongue over Thor’s thumb before hollowing his cheeks around it, expression just as sultry as Loki’s usually is.

Behind him, the other clone has finished pulling away his clothes and presses himself against Thor’s back, kneading at Thor’s buttocks as the first clone sucks at his thumb. Thor grins and looks over to his brother – who is sat back in the chair, a glazed look in his eyes as he parts his lips.

“Can you feel this?” Thor asks, running a hand down the clone’s chest and watching Loki’s stomach muscles contract as he pushes into empty air.

“It would appear so,” Loki says, looking off-balance for once. “Strange. I do not feel it when they touch each other -” he breaks off into a groan as Thor reaches for the second clone and repeats the caress, leaving both his hands splayed flat just above the clone’s groins. They pout prettily, the one rolling his hips from side to side, the other reaching out to play with Thor’s nipples – but Loki jerks in the chair, eyes wide.

“Both,” Thor grins. “You feel whatever I do to both. Oh, yes, brother. I do like this new game.”

“Wait,” Loki says, shivering a little, “wait, this is – there should not be such a strong feedback loop – I ought to study this properly -”

Thor pulls one clone into a kiss, filthy and deep, and wraps an arm around the other, bringing him his front so that he can stroke his flanks and skim a hand over his taut buttocks. Loki dissolves into a series of short pants, and though he cannot see it, Thor is well pleased by the sound of him rocking in the chair, the wood creaking like a ship in a gale as Loki reacts to two sets of touches.

“You were saying?” Thor says smugly.

Loki gives him a weak glare.

“Shall we make a wager?” Thor says, taking both sets of buttocks in hand and gaining three pleased grunts in return. “I say I can satisfy you before you can bring me to climax.”

“Really?” Loki says, arching an eyebrow. “Then I wager that I can make you spill before I do – but you must do as I say.”

“That is hardly fair,” Thor points out. “We should take in turns to act on the other – or others – as we see fit. And you must do as I say, for once!”

Loki ponders this, shifting in his seat as Thor has a good squeeze. “And what is the forfeit for losing?”

Thor could not care less: it is the competition he is after, not a prize. “The right to be called victor will suit me fine.”

“Not much incentive,” Loki says drily; Thor lets a hand drift between a clone’s buttocks as a silent rejoinder. “I – ah! – want something better. I want the dragon horns you brought back from Muspelheim. Both of them.”

“You may have them then, but only if you win,” Thor says, concealing his indifference as best he can. He has a dozen trophies from that trip and he offered Loki the pick of them when he got back: Loki, as ever, refused to take a gift and has been inventing tricks and traps to win them from Thor ever since. It is proving even more exciting than killing the beasts in the first place. “I will have your word you will call me the victor and praise my prowess with all the skill you have.”

“ _If_ you win,” Loki says. “Very well. I suppose it is your wager: what would you have me do first?”

“Sit back,” Thor says. “And watch.”

Loki quirks an eyebrow but complies and Thor turns his attention to the clones wriggling in his arms. He has had the pleasure of watching multiple Lokis before, performing with themselves and with somewhat over-generous illusions of Thor, but they were only ghosts, things of light and air, shimmering like heat haze when he tried to touch. He has never had two Lokis to kiss and fondle and the thought alone has his heart racing.

“On the bed,” he says to two sets of wicked eyes and they obey, kneeling in place with perfect synchronicity. Thor spares a moment to look them up and down, twin Lokis, pale skin gleaming in the firelight, a faint flush across their throats, hands twitching towards each other in their impatience. They move just like his brother, without a hint of magelight flickering over them: it would be truly impossible to tell them from the real thing unless you knew Loki very, very well indeed.

“You are beautiful,” he says aloud and both Lokis preen in response.

A few quick steps take him to the bed and he arranges himself on the plush furs so that he can sit up against the headboard while watching the real Loki, who is affecting boredom by inspecting his nails. Enough of _that_. He pats the bed on each side and the clones crawl up to him. he spreads his legs wide and settles them both on his lap, their legs intertwined as they perch on his broad thighs, each with an arm thrown round his shoulders for balance. They are greedy, demanding things, unsurprisingly, and even as he gets them into position they are raking their nails over his chest and teasing at his nipples; the one on the left bends his head so he can lick at Thor’s earlobe and the one on the right trails kisses over his jaw and down his neck.

“No,” Thor warns, ignoring twin pouts as they pull away. “This is my turn – and that means you are going to sit still.”

“How thrilling,” Loki drawls but Thor ignores him to raise a hand to the clone of the left and gentle cup the back of his neck. This Loki comes easily into a kiss, slow and open-mouthed, until the other Loki – or a Loki – whimpers faintly. It’s only fair to give the one on the right the same treatment, and he ignores both the clutching hands sliding over him and the first Loki nuzzling at his cheek. He keeps kissing this Loki until the other whines softly at him, and only then does he dip a hand to that Loki’s crotch and runs a palm over his half-hard cock.

Two Lokis sigh at the touch and Thor smiles into the kiss he shares with third. It is a little awkward to grasp the second Loki’s cock as both cling to him, but it is worth the trouble to have two Lokis arch into his touch, to see two flushed and straining cocks swell under his hands. The clones are just as responsive as his brother, and he spares a glance from their beauty to see the real one – who has his eyes shut and is biting his lip as he grinds into the air.

“Loki,” Thor rumbles. “You have to watch.”

Loki’s brow creases but he opens his eyes and looks hungrily at Thor and the two Lokis squirming in his lap.

“Do you like what you see?” Thor asks.

“That should be obvious,” Loki manages, hands clenched tightly around the armrests of the chair. “But you are in no better state than me.”

Fair enough: Thor’s own cock is drooling against his belly, a persistent throb he is doing his best to ignore as two Lokis writhe against him, each panting harshly in his ear. Best to be done quickly then, lest Loki defeat him after all.

Thor knows Loki’s body as well as his own, after all this time together, and so he knows just how to stroke the cocks thrusting against his hand. Gentler than he is with his own, using the copious pre-come to slick the way, slow on the down stroke and quicker on the up, let Loki set the pace and close his fist around the head so Loki can push into it, each thrust a little faster as he gets closer to finishing – the clone on his right comes first with a sudden grunt, spilling over Thor’s fingers and the sight seems to spur the one on his left on immediately after. His Loki cries out at both – two short, sharp sounds suspiciously like his name, as orgasm hits him and then hits again, leaving him scrabbling at the air, hand clamped tightly at the base of his cock.

“Two climaxes,” Thor says triumphantly, wiping his hand on the bedding. “The easiest bet I have ever won.”

Loki stirs from his slump to narrow his eyes at Thor. “That does not count.”

“What? You said if I made you spill -”

“Yes, _me_ ,” Loki says. “Not them. And I am certainly not satisfied.”

Oh. Thor is not convinced this isn’t cheating, but with two naked Lokis practically purring against him he is not inclined to complain that the game will continue. “Well, I am not satisfied yet either,” he says, gesturing at his crotch. “Your turn.”

*

Some half an hour later minutes later and Thor has the unfamiliar sense that he is losing.

He groans and jerks against the soft fabric holding him, but these are the same ribbons Loki used on him last time, and while the enchantments have faded, the silk is still unnaturally strong.

“Oh, Thor,” Loki chides, putting a finger to his lips. “You know you shouldn’t struggle. You look so good like this.”

He’s tied securely to the chair, legs raised high and strapped to the armrests, the rest of him pinioned against the back, so both his ass and cock are on display – and available to the three Lokis.

The Loki tracing circles with his tongue on Thor’s perineum chuckles and Thor jerks at the warm air brushing over his balls. The Loki lapping at his nipple gives him a sharp nip and pushes him back down to continue his work, inching down Thor’s chest, worrying the raised flesh while his twin resumes his torturously slow licking. They’ve been at this for what feels like _days,_ caressing every inch of Thor with maddeningly light touches and feather-light kisses without ever touching his cock, and he going absolutely mad from it.

The real Loki stands before him, cock in hand, radiating smugness.

“You are always in such a rush,” Loki says, sighing as he idly palms his own cock. “Always barging in with brute force. I prefer a little subtlety, myself. I like to have you desperate for my cock before I fuck you. I like to see you dripping with sweat and sobbing my name, that sweet, plump ass raised high, just waiting to be filled with my cock.”

The Loki between his legs presses his face against Thor’s asscheeks and swipes his tongue over Thor’s hole.

“Loki,” Thor says, voice rough and harsh, cock twitching as lust roars in him. “Brother, yes, do it -”

But the Loki clone retreats and returns to sucking a bruise into Thor’s inner thigh.

“So hungry for me,” Loki says, stepping closer, his cock just as the right level for Thor to suck, if only he were free. “How easy it will be to win this.”

Thor grits his teeth. He _hates_ Loki’s gloating face.

“I think not,” he says, forcing a cocky grin. “I will fall asleep at this rate.”

Loki glares at him, the playful touching of the clones abruptly stopping – and Thor yelps as a hot mouth suddenly engulfs his cock. There is no teasing in the clone now and he bobs his cock and swallows Thor to the root, throat muscles fluttering around him; after the build-up it as all he can do not to buck up into that wet heat, especially when this Loki hums happily to himself, lips cherry-red where they are stretched around Thor.

“Oh?” Loki says. “You were saying?”

Thor opens his mouth for a retort but it turns into an unintelligible grunt as the other clone appears behind the first, smiling sweetly up at Thor as he reaches over his twin and rubs an oil-slick finger over Thor’s twitching hole.

“Damn you,” Thor says, unable to think of anything better, unable to think of much at all as the light pressure becomes a piercing ache and that slick finger penetrates him at last.

“Look at you,” Loki says, holding his cock in a vice-like grip, looking none too controlled himself as he watches his doubles swallow Thor’s cock and pump one, and then two, and then three long fingers in and out of Thor’s body. “I should keep you like this forever, brother, tied up and on display for me, fucking you so slowly and so carefully that by the end you can’t even remember your name, nothing but _mine_ , screaming my name -”

Those long fingers crook in exactly the right way and stars explode behind Thor’s eyes, a brutal shock of pleasure that has him screaming: “ _Loki_!”

“That’s it,” Loki says, leaning forward, pupils like pinpricks as he stares at Thor’s face, “you’re going to come for me, brother, just like this.”

He is, he actually is going to, Thor realises, heat pooling in his belly as his cock is expertly lathed by one Loki while the other stretches him wide, but not wide enough – _no_. He will _not_. Damn the wager, damn the game: he cares nothing for winning but everything for making the most of this, and sweet as it is, he wants more than simply coming from Loki’s mouth and fingers, as he has so many times before.

The bindings fly apart as Thor erupts out of the chair with a roar, the startled Lokis scattering away from him. Thor grabs the closest, whichever it is, and swallows the cruel, sinful mouth in a bruising kiss. “I’m going to fuck you,” he snarls to the room at large, “and you are going to fuck me, and the other one will feed me his cock, and none of you will say another damned word.”

There is a hand in his hair and he turns to see a wild-eyed Loki grinning wolfishly at him before demanding his own kiss. Thor has had enough of teasing though, and he manhandles this one – the real one – to the bed and throws him down on it, hard enough the clone already there bounces up into the air with a cry.

There’s a tap on his shoulder and the other clone is there with the oil in hand, his fingers sticky from fingering Thor. “You can fuck me,” he says to this one, taking the oil and liberally coating his fingers with it. “You,” he says to the one smirking on the bed, “on your belly.”

His brother rolls over, spreading his leg and tilting his ass up, and Thor dribbles what remains of the oil over him, frantically impatient despite having come three times already. Loki grunts as Thor works two fingers into his tight hole, grinding against the furs, and Thor hauls him up by the hips the moment his body feels loose enough.

Loki sobs as he slides in in one smooth stroke, a sound of pure pleasure, and Thor interlaces their fingers as he comes to rest against Loki’s back, kissing the back of his neck. He remains there until he feels a gentle touch against his ass. “Yes,” he answers and then he is moaning, the breath escaping from his lungs as the other Loki breaches him, his cock so much more satisfying than his clever fingers. He’s more than ready when Loki begins to move, grinding in deep, and he lets the delicious thrusts propel his own, the Loki beneath him pushing back against his cock as his hips are rocked between them.

It’s better than he could imagined, the stretch and burn a counterpoint to the hot channel clamped around his own cock, being so completely filled as he fucks, and from the strangled noises the Loki beneath him is making, his brother is feeling the same as Thor fucks him and his clone feeds the sensation of fucking to where his cock is rubbing against the bed. But nothing prepares him for how filthily full he feels when the third straddles Loki’s head and pushes his cock into Thor’s waiting mouth.

The Loki beneath him wails loudly enough for all three of them as Thor sucks on the cock in his mouth and shudders around the cock breaching him. He never, ever thought he would have this, to be taken apart by Loki even as he writhes on Loki’s own cock, to have his mouth full of Loki’s thick cock, the taste of pre-come rich on his tongue, lips stretched wide even as Loki fucks into him in short, shallow thrusts.

It is overwhelming for him and Norns know how Loki can bear it, his body over-stimulated beyond imagination, pleasure so intense he can only hold on as it licks along his spine and washes over him in wave after delirious wave. If he had not spent so much already he would have come within moments, he is sure, carried away by the storm of sensations, and even as it is his body is winding ever tighter, a white-hot blaze burning everything away bar the feel of Loki all around him.

This is not a game: this is _paradise_ , and all he wants is to stay in this moment forever; but no, need is scorching him, his body trembling, and he must come, he has to come, or surely he will die from the want –

There’s a grunt and suddenly his mouth is flooded with the familiar, delicious taste of Loki’s seed, the fat cock pulsing on his tongue; before he can swallow the thrusts behind him stutter and there’s a low moan as hot come fills his ass, the clone’s hands clamped on his hips. His Loki _screams_ , the body beneath him convulsing, his inner walls clamping down on Thor’s cock as he comes impossibly hard and that’s it, orgasm crashes over Thor in the same instant and he empties himself into Loki with a shout, choking around the cock in his mouth.

The clones shiver, a full body tremble, and then, instantly, vanish into nothingness. Thor winces at the loss, too sudden for his liking, and extricates himself more carefully from his fucked-out and almost insensible brother.

He would have liked three Lokis to cuddle, he thinks wistfully, but he is happy to have at least one, and though he must manhandle Loki into position, he curls into Thor with a dazed and blissful smile, utterly exhausted.

Loki mutters something against Thor’s chest, too faintly for him to make it out.

“Are you well?” he asks, smoothing Loki’s sweat-soaked hair. He is drifting on a high stronger than any he has ever known – and Loki must be feeling it threefold.

 “I win,” Loki enunciates, lips moving against Thor’s breast.

“A draw, surely?” he yawns, too tired to even be amused by Loki’s needling. They are absolutely filthy and his room reeks like a brothel, but he will worry about that later, and settles for grabbing at the least sticky section of the covers and pulling it over them.

“I win,” Loki insists, stirring a little. “Unless you have another round in you?”

“No,” Thor admits. “I am well satisfied. You have worn me out.”

“Then victory is mine,” Loki murmurs, already half-asleep.

Thor kisses his forehead, sleep tugging at him with gentle but insist hands.

“So it is,” he concedes and while three Lokis was a truly thrilling experience, it cannot ever replace this one: his brother wrapped up in his arms, held so closely that it seems they were made to fit together like this, content and peaceful and Thor’s, only Thor’s, for now and for always.

 


	31. Wildcard! Author's choice AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Wildcard! Author's choice AU**  
>  Thor/Loki, Penny Dreadful AU, Victorian werewolf Thor and Dorian Grey Loki, rough sex, mild dub-con. 
> 
> Probably makes more sense if you've seen Episode 4 of Penny Dreadful but works as a stand alone; [here's me blathering about the rest of the AU](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/100409957258). My final fill and, of course, my very favourite AU: the nineteenth century is the best century ;)

This was a mistake. Thor feels it in his bones, but it’s his stomach twisting with sour, sick certainty as he forces himself away from the pit where the scruffy mongrel Loki called ‘Mad Jack’ is already up to his thin, flea-bitten chest in dead rats. He should have known better than to trust in Loki’s smile, promising so much and revealing so little, but after days and weeks of being cooped up in Lord Stark’s grim house, after so much failure and horror and the growing tension leaving them all snapping and snarling at each other’s throats, he’d thought anything Loki could offer would be better. A mistake, and now, potentially, a dire one.

The tightly packed room stinks of blood and fear and death, coating his tongue so that every swallow tastes of it. Lust hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the clouds of smoke, and all around him men are screaming and whooping, cheering on the slavering dog as it slaughters the trapped rats at quite literally break-neck speed. A civilised man might be shocked at the naked blood-lust in his companions. Thor wishes it was shock driving him from their place at the ring side to the bar in the corner.

He barks an order, fists clenched tight, and gulps the whiskey as fast as the barkeep can give it to him, inhaling deeply and holding each shot in his mouth before forcing it down. It’s cheap and foul, but that’s to the good: it reeks of almonds and spirits, helps to blot out the richer, deeper scents surrounding him, and the gutrot fire of it burns away some of the sweet taste of death.

It’s not until the hand lands on his shoulder that he realises someone is talking to him. At him, actually: some fat prig in an evening suit that screams of more money than sense. The words slide off Thor, circling around him like buzzing flies, just out of reach, but the tone gets through, as does the body language of the fool and his friends. They’re as obvious as the  dogs scrabbling in their cages, keening while they wait their chance to kill for themselves. Stiff-legged, braying and never moving too far from each other; the pack of fools has formed a half-circle around Thor, spitting insults and laughing at each other’s wit. A challenge.

Thor turns away and concentrates hard on the burn of the whiskey. But it’s no good.

Some fifteen minutes later, Thor stumbles outside, slamming a hand against the wall to keep upright and hawks a glob of blood into the gutter. Instinct drags his head up, but there’s no moonlight, no starlight, only the filthy, choking black of London’s smog and the sickly haze of gaslight from a street far removed from this back alley. His head is spinning and he can’t fool himself that it’s because of the drink. God, he needs another drink.

“Well done,” says a voice behind him, and he’s turning, snarling, before he can stop himself. “A far better performance than that wretched hound. Mind you, at least Mad Jack won me more than I’ve just had to slip our newfound friends to keep the peace. Do you have any idea who you just laid into?”

There’s blood on his tongue and the scent is rich in his nose: coppery and thick and delicious. The foul whiskey at the bar had helped, a little, to stave off the hunger rising, but the part of himself he wanted to leave behind tonight has already woken, and all the whiskey in the world can’t help him now.

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Whoever the men were, they were lucky. They’re still breathing. But it has cost him all but the last, bare threads of his self-control, and now he’s teetering on the edge, his unnatural hunger a yawning pit low in his belly.

Loki tilts his head and smiles. “You really don’t, do you?” he says, obviously pleased. “How marvellous. Still, I shan’t be returning there for a while, and I don’t think I’ll be taking you to any of my other regular haunts. That leaves your place or mine, and since I have not and will not ever set foot in Cheapside, I’ll call us a cab.”

Thor sucks in a ragged breath. “No,” he manages. “I’m done.” He cannot imagine why he ever thought accepting Loki’s invitation was a good idea. It’s not safe. He’s not safe.

“But I’m not,” Loki says, still all smiles. “You’re coming home with me.” He moves closer, too close, leaning right into Thor’s face to look at him. There’s white fire in Thor’s blood and the hot tang of blood in his mouth; his whole body is wound tight, adrenalin singing and muscles tensed. This close, Loki smells of sweat and bergamot cologne, of cigarette smoke and absinthe and desire.

He doesn’t have to see the sky to know it’s the night before the full moon. It’s so hard to think, to concentrate on sight and speech when his other sense are screaming at him, taunting him with the vibrant tapestry of scents rising from the city, his body poised as if for flight – but not just for flight, of course. That’s the problem. Old urges cloud his mind, drive him on, panting wildly inside him. He wants to run and hunt and howl. He needs to satisfy some of the hunger stirred up by the night and the blood. If only he could _think_ -

*

Thor’s so busy concentrating on how his knuckles crack, how his bones are pushing against his skin and the blood roaring in his ears that he doesn’t really how skilfully he’s been manhandled until he’s standing in Loki’s bedroom with no real idea of how they got from the alleyway to here. Losing time: a bad sign. The fact that all he cares about is the faint smell of Loki rising from the sheets is a worse one.

“I have to go,” he says, voice thick. “I can’t -”

“You can,” Loki says, appearing from the bathroom. He’s swapped his painfully fashionable eveningwear for a loose silk dressing gown that perfectly matches his eyes, and if Thor had been in any doubt about the nature of Loki’s interest in him, it’s obvious now.

Thor hesitates, knowing it’s another mistake. He has to go, has to get as far away from here as possible, find somewhere where he will do as little damage as possible, though in this crowded city there’s nowhere far enough to run to. He’s woken too many times with blood on his hands and a full belly he vomits up with his eyes firmly closed.

He moves stiffly towards the door, but Loki is there, in front of him, like a striking snake. “You play your part well, I’ll give you that,” he says, eyes glittering in the lamp light. “But you’re no more human than I am. Show me what you really are, Mr. Odinson. You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

There’s far too much to worry about in such a short speech for Thor’s liking, and he tries to find the words to say so: Loki may be an acquaintance of some sort of Miss Rushman’s, but he knows nothing about this peculiar man, nothing at all save for the curve of his smile and his heavy, bewildering scent. He’s too close, always too close, and Thor is hungry, hungrier than he has any right to be.

Loki says something else, but all Thor sees is the arrogant set of his shoulders, his teeth bared and his body pushing into his space, and he has the challenger by the throat in a heartbeat.

Loki’s lily-white throat pulsates against Thor’s palm as he swallows, eyes huge as Thor drags him in closer still. He’s silent, still and limp in Thor’s grasp, and that’s enough for Thor to pause, to consider him more carefully. He inhales deeply, mouth open, expecting the sour stink of fear – but Loki, despite his sudden passivity, isn’t afraid. Beneath the dusting of artificial scent, the truth rises from his body in luscious, dark waves. Desire. Want. Need – and hunger, one as overwhelming as Thor’s own. And beneath it – just for a moment – the overripe bloom of decay.

Loki’s pulse is rabbit-fast and Thor’s fangs slide out at the image. They’re stubby, blunted things – he couldn’t turn yet if he wanted to, not yet – but they’re enough to tear the throat from a mere man, to tear flesh from bone and bolt it down. He knows this too well. Yet despite the tantalising carrion-scent, it is the musky sourness of Loki’s lust that he can taste as he swallows, that permeates the room and has him dragging Loki closer.

The beast in him is a creature of simple wants. To feed. To fight. To fuck. And if denied one, it will inevitably turn to the other.

Thor crushes his mouth to Loki’s, chasing his taste, hand still wrapped around his throat. He’s being rough, too rough, tearing at Loki’s mouth, swallowing his alluring scent and, inevitably, as his fangs rip at Loki’s plush lips, the coppery tang of his blood. Thor swallows before his mind catches up with his body, and forces himself to shove Loki away.

“You should run,” he snarls, voice thickening, the words slurred and hard to shape. “Run. Be safe.”

Loki looks at him, wide-eyed and vulnerable, his robe half-shredded where Thor has been holding him. His lip glistens with blood and he lick at it slowly. Thor tracks the movement and growls, hands clenched into fists so tight his nails gouge into his palms. Speech is leaving him, and he can only just jerk his head at the door. If Loki bolts, he’ll chase, but he thinks he can make himself hesitate, and if Loki just gets past the door –

Loki steps closer, slinking into Thor’s body space, eyes cast down. He croons softly as he tugs at the buttons of Thor’s waistcoat, hands sliding over his bunched arms as he divests him of his jacket. Thor cannot tell if he is singing or murmuring some nonsense, but it’s pleasant enough, and so he holds himself still, inhaling the lush scent of the man pressed against him.

“Do it,” Loki says, peeling back Thor’s shirt so he can run his palms over Thor’s heaving chest. “Show me.”

Thor snarls into his face and the red mist descends.

Everything fractures when he’s like this – not changed, it’s not yet time – but teetering on the edge, more beast than man. Time shatters into a constant immediacy, every moment an endless now. Now he has one hand at Loki’s throat, the other twisted in his hair, and he’s dragging him to the bed, careless of whether Loki is kicking or tripping as Thor manhandles him. Now Loki is beneath him, whimpering, pinned down by Thor’s bulk as Thor laps at his skin, tearing away the frustrating fabric obstructing him until they are both naked and entangled in each other.

Scent is stronger than vision in the now, and Thor chases it to where it is strongest: the pulse points at the neck and behind the ears, Loki’s armpits and groin, running a flat tongue over each new patch of skin as Loki bucks and gasps. Thor holds him down easily with one hand, grip firm, and as he licks his trail over the sweet flesh beneath him he dimly recognises new bruising, sharp hisses as he nips at the small wounds. Loki smells of nothing but desire, his cock drooling a bitter stream that pools on his belly; Thor laps this up too, snuffling at Loki’s hard cock but doing nothing more than a few exploratory laps. Loki claws at him, making an unholy racket every time Thor gets close to it, but Thor ignores his wailing in favour of licking further down, at the soft patch beneath his balls and chasing the scent of Loki’s body between his legs.

The musky scent at the entrance to his body is too tempting to be ignored, but frustratingly hidden. Easily solved: Thor flips Loki over in one swift movement, grabs him by the ankle and yanks him further down the bed. He’s momentarily distracted by the lush mounds of Loki’s ass, and must mouth at them, biting down when Loki pushes up into him. Loki’s constant babbling rises in pitch as Thor spreads his cheeks and swipes his tongue over Loki’s hole. It’s a pleasing sound, Thor decides, and so he continues to lap at Loki’s hole while Loki moans and ruts back and forth, into the mattress and back towards Thor’s mouth.

Now, the scent is overwhelming and Loki’s grinding inflames his own desperate lust: he grabs Loki by the hips and roughly forces him up so he can rear up and mount him, the oldest and strongest instinct. But as he shoves against him, he meets resistance and a sudden cry of pain. Thor growls, displeased, but anxiety is souring the sweetness of Loki’s scent and he lets him drop, nosing between his thighs until desire is once against thick on his tongue. Now, Loki is reaching down, back arching, hands snaking between his legs and Thor sucks on the long fingers as they meet his mouth. now, Loki’s fingers are pressing at his own hole, entering, and he whimpers in the same pleasing pitch as Thor continues to lap at him, his mouth pressed to where Loki’s hands are busy within his body.

Now, the fingers withdraw, and Loki is moving, Thor drawing away as he folds him legs under himself, rises onto all fours. The sight triggers the old instinct, again, and Thor is on him, his cockhead pushing at the wet entrance and now, now it slips inside and Loki lets out a low, shuddering breath. He’s tight, so tight and warm and Thor sinks into him with a grunt, working his hips until he’s all the way in. Loki’s head has dropped to his hands and his dark hair fallen forward, revealing the nape of his neck; without thinking, Thor arches over him and bites down hard, fangs breaking the skin and thin trickles of blood running over his tongue. Desire roars in him and he fucks in, hard, jolting Loki’s entire body, but with his neck so firmly in Thor’s grasp he cannot move. Loki’s sobbing, breath rasping, lust rolling off him in even stronger waves, and he buries his face on one folded arm while the other disappears beneath him.

There’s no subtlety in the now, no sense of patience or lingering, only the pleasure of the chase, the climax, and Thor cares for nothing but the body beneath him, fucking him hard and fast, bearing down on him with all his strength and power. The beast has not been satisfied for a long time, too long, and what hunting it has had in this filthy city has been short and swift and only left him wanting. But this, this is exactly what he craves, this is a hunger that can be fed, as his mate moans and cries and snarls with pleasure, as Thor chases the mounting ecstasy with single-minded determination. The slap of flesh on flesh and the stink of lust fills the room as Thor pounds into Loki, until the delicious body beneath him suddenly convulses and clamps down even more tightly on Thor’s cock. Thor releases his bite to inhale the scent of Loki’s release, lips curling back as he breathes it in, even sweeter than the blood that lingers in his mouth, and the two together drive him over the edge, as a howl rips from his chest and he empties himself in the shuddering Loki.

Spent, Thor pulls free and spends some time scenting at the mess of fluids mingled on Loki’s body, tasting both his seed and Loki’s own. Loki is limp and unresisting as he does so, satiated and blissful pheromones almost masking the faint decay in him, and the combination makes Thor drowsy, has him pushing and pulling at Loki’s limbs until he can curl around him and bury his face in Loki’s hair. Loki makes some more sounds, which are as meaningless as ever in the now, and Thor licks at his face affectionately until he falls quiet. Now, sleep is pulling at him and now the beast too wants only to rest, with his mate safe and protected in his hold.

*

Thor wakes alone, thrashing about in sudden confusion. Where – how – he freezes, heart pounding, yanking back the covers to examine himself. He’s whole and intact, but there are faint streaks of blood on the bedding and beneath his fingernails. What has he done? Last night is a blur of impressions, half a dream, and he slumps back against the bed as he tries to hold on to as much as he can.

Despite the gloom induced by the heavy curtains, he can feel it is nearly midday. His stomach is empty and he’s absolutely ravenous – oh, thank God. Thor doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry and a little of both erupts from him. He’s not killed anything. He’s not hurt anyone.

A quick glance reveals his trousers and shirt crumpled carelessly on the floor; as he struggles into them, he revises his optimism. He’s done far worse by night, but he was perilously close to the edge last night, and as his fingertips keep reminding him, he did hurt Loki with his roughness. He’s almost certain Loki enjoyed it, but he won’t trust the memories of what he was, and Loki’s absence now does not bode well. He must find his host and apologise.

It takes some searching through the cavernous and oddly empty house, but he finds Loki alone in his parlour, staring at the profusion of portraits covering the walls and sipping at a hot chocolate.

“Ah, there you are,” Loki says, as if he were the one searching. “I did try to wake you earlier, but you sleep like the dead. I take it you are somewhat nocturnal in character?”

“Sometimes,” Thor hedges, looking for a seat to take. Loki waves him to his side on the oversized sofa, and flicks a hand at the second cup waiting on the side table. It’s curiously old-fashioned, but Thor is willing to indulge, and sips gratefully at the warm, over-sweetened chocolate.

Loki hasn’t bothered to throw on much more a robe, apparently indifferent to the autumnal chill permeating the room, and Thor does his best to unobtrusively study what he can see of his body. He distinctly remembers biting at Loki’s neck, and his grip was bruising at the least – yet in the orange light streaming through the windows, Loki is very obviously whole and unmarked, and he lounges across the sofa without a hint of discomfort.

“After such a fucking, I cannot believe you are shy,” Loki says as he finishes his chocolate. “So should I take your silence as regret regarding our congress?”

“No,” Thor says, a little shocked at the bluntness. Even his more daring partners have not been so direct in the light of day. For Loki to speak so freely, they must be truly alone, but what kind of gentleman would have no servants about the place? “No, I – I was not sure of my welcome with you, nor my place in this house after sunrise. I did not think you would want to – to discuss our intimacy, or prolong it.”

“If I wanted you gone, you would be,” Loki says lazily. “I have cleared my schedule simply to await your rising. You should be flattered.”

“I am,” Thor says, though he feels more confused than anything else. There is a pattern to these sorts of encounters between gentlemen, a set of unspoken but precise rules, ones he is overfamiliar with. Loki is not following them, and it is keeping him off-balance. What is he to do?

“I – I must ask,” he starts after a moment; “if you are…quite well. Physically, I mean.”

Loki stretches languidly, letting his robe slide off a shoulder entirely free from scratches. “Oh, yes,” he says. “But I think you will not be satisfied until you check for yourself.”

This is closer to what Thor knows, and so with some relief he leans over and tugs the rest of Loki’s robe away from his body while Loki watches him with hooded eyes. A second round  with the same partner is a rarity with men he has met in the dark of the night, but he will be happy to oblige, so long as Loki is as well as he claims.

There isn’t a mark on him.

It ought to be a great relief, but as Thor runs his hands over every part, gentle but probing, his puzzlement only grows. How can there be no wounds, no bruises and no – no consequences of his wild behaviour in the night?

“What would you have of me?” he asks as his exploration turns to caresses. He cannot unravel the mystery here, but he still owes Loki a debt, and means to repay it before he goes.

“You are quite a different animal by daylight,” Loki says. “Such a _gentleman_. So this is who you didn’t want to be last night, then.”

Thor flinches, but Loki is kind enough to ignore it. “I treated you – roughly,” Thor says. “I would show you what else I can be.”

“A man of many mysteries,” Loki murmurs, stretching under Thor’s carefully gentle hands. “Well, you’re not boring, at least. Carry on, my penitent. Kiss away the bruises you so very much enjoyed inflicting on me.”

Kind was not the right word: there is nothing resembling kindness in the grin Loki gives him as he lifts his head, only the satisfaction of seeing his barb hit home.

“Bruises I cannot find,” Thor says, temper pricking ever so slightly. “I know what I am, and I did last night. But just what are you?”

Loki’s smile grows even wider. “A singular individual,” he purrs. “Damned, desirable and dangerous; a dilettante and a prince of decadence and deceit.”

“You’re something, alright,” Thor growls. Tonight is the full moon; his good humour slips easily on days like these.

“Temper, temper,” Loki teases, arching a slender foot. “Or do you want me to make you rough again?”

“Make me -” Thor chokes on the realisation. “You – last night – you -”

“Saw an opportunity for mischief,” Loki supplies helpfully. “Though your – appetite – far exceeded my expectations. I have some thoughts on you and your painfully obviously secrets, Mr. Odinson, but I really cannot be bothered to discuss them with you at this moment, nor, I can assure you, with anyone else at any point in the future. My discretion is as legendary as my fecklessness, and I have no wish to lose so intriguing a playmate to the caprice of rumour. Now, if I can bring your attention back to the business at hand?”

Loki bucks his hips, and his thickening cock bobs invitingly at Thor, who is still sat there, slack mouthed, heart racing with sudden adrenalin. He knows something of what Thor is – and yet he took Thor to bed – the sheer _madness_ of it –

“It is too late now for remorse,” Loki says sharply, kicking Thor with his heel. “So cease your silent moralising, and do as you said. I would see this other side of you, that I might decide which better suits my needs.”

“ _Your_ needs?” Thor manages, head whirling. “Have I any say in this?”

“No,” Loki says. “Isn’t that exactly what you want to hear? You have no responsibility here, no duty, no need to hide or protect or hold back. You’ve done your worst and I loved every minute of it.”

Thor considers him, splayed on the bed, easy and relaxed and unafraid, unmarked and intact after loosing the beast Thor has worked so hard to keep under control. Loki is wrong in underestimating just what the worst of Thor really is, but even this is a freedom he has not dared dream of since he understood the nature of the curse laid upon him. It is curiously liberating to shrug away the dreadful sense of duty that has dogged his steps all this time, and to let his burdens slide from his shoulders as he tosses his shirt away.

“That’s a good boy,” Loki croons, guiding Thor’s head to his neck, to the exact spot where Thor’s fangs broke his skin last night. Thor obediently kisses the soft, unblemished skin and Loki sighs. “There’s my good pet.”

“I’m not your dog,” Thor murmurs, humour winding around his words despite the provocation.

“Halfway between wolf and man?” Loki answers. “Dear fellow, you’re desperate for a collar and leash. It’s written all over you.”

Loki’s needling is starting to get under his skin, and he rears up, retort at the ready – and then he remembers the words that started all this.

_Ever wish you could be someone else? Run away from your life?_

_All the time._

Loki’s lips sneer, but his eyes are wide, almost afraid – and Thor remembers this, remembers the vulnerability, now carefully masked and keep just as much in check as his own black rage. In the daylight, neither are what they are in the darkness.

“Is this who you want to be?” he asks, sweeping his hands tenderly over Loki’s exposed chest. “Or do you want to try something else?”

“You are beginning to bore me,” Loki says, but his gaze slides away and his eyelashes tremble.

“Your turn to come with me,” Thor says, pulling Loki into his arms, cupping his cheek before silencing his inevitable poison with the sweetest kiss he can offer.

*

After, Thor stretches and starts half-heartedly groping for his trousers, only for Loki to slap his hand away. He looks younger sprawled in the rumpled bed, hair fanning out across the pillow: younger and yet more ethereal, more polished, like a marble statue come to life. There is no whiff of decay on him now, though Thor has explored him even more thoroughly than last night, with his mind now intact enough to look for what pleases Loki most.

“You should stay here, with me,” Loki says, wriggling around so he can kick Thor’s trousers further out of reach. “Tonight.”

“That’s a bad idea,” Thor says instantly.

Loki shakes his head. “One of my best, I think. I do not think you stay at Miss Rushman’s and Captain Rogers’ little hideaway at this time of the month, and so I assume you roam the worst parts of the city, losing yourself amid the flotsam and jetsam of humanity, the ones who will not be missed?”

Thor stares at him steadily, stomach twisting. He’s not proud of it, but yes, that is exactly what he does.

“Stay with me,” Loki says, eyes bright. “Stay here. I guarantee no, hah, innocent lives will be in peril. I can promise you no-one will die this night.”

Thor hesitates. It will be dangerous, incredibly dangerous, and he cannot bear the thought of his horror being unleashed on the beautiful man pressed against him. but if he can deliver what he promises – if he has somewhere Thor can be contained until sunrise -

“You’ll need restraints,” Thor says. “Rope, chains, a stout door – no living being must come near me. You have not seen even half of what I am when the moonlight takes me.”

“Oh, don’t worry about restraints,” Loki says with a crooked smile. “I’ve quite the little dungeon. And likewise, have no fear. No human will be in this house tonight.”

Thor runs a hand over Loki’s warm, soft body, and comes to rest on Loki’s chest as it rises and falls, feeling the breath in him, the thumping heartbeat. “What are you?” he asks gently.

“Myself,” Loki answers, looking him straight in the eye. “I have no other word for it. What would you call yourself?”

“An _ulfheðnar_ ,” Thor says, accent slipping as he uses his native tongue. “Cursed with it, as all men of my blood have been, since the ancient days.”

“It has a good ring to it,” Loki says thoughtfully. “And a family curse, how delightfully romantic. So you have not had any dealings with ancient beings of undisguised malevolence?”

“No,” Thor says shortly. The madness in the blood of his family is not _romantic,_ and the fate he bears has been a heavy burden ever since he reached manhood and the wolf within burst free.

“Well, we can’t all be so lucky,” Loki says, teeth bared. “Suffice it to say that while I can be harmed the same as any man, as you discovered last night, the effects are but temporary, and I am always and indubitably myself soon after. I do not age and I cannot die, but I can be bored to death, and I confess myself nearly in that state until I came across Miss Rushman and her happy little band…and you, of course.”

“If you can bleed, you can die,” Thor says blackly. “Do not gamble yourself on your gift. How will you heal if I tear you limb from limb?”

“How indeed? It will, either way, be something new and exciting for me, and that is worth any price to me, Thor the _ulfheðnar._ ”

Thor stares at him, at the flat blackness of his gaze and the taste of honesty in the air. He would risk death to know if he can die? Or is it death he chases, and hopes to find in Thor?

“You are mad,” he says finally. “To be given such a gift and squander it in such a way.”

“Perhaps,” Loki allows. “But live my life as long as I have lived it, and see all the world turn to ash and dust and the bitter misery of familiarity, and then speak to me of _squandering_. Besides, I spoke truly on the matter of restraints. I mean only to _see_ something new and exciting tonight. I will be on the other side of the bars, I assure you.”

Thor cannot trust him. But his choices are so few and, so far, is mistakes have proved not so mistaken after all. And it is an unlooked for and most welcome relief to have someone know what he is and not flee in terror, nor look at him with misguided pity and undisguised disbelief.

“I will stay,” he says slowly.

“Capital,” Loki says, favouring him with a kiss. “Now, let us call for some luncheon, and I will show you my little toys.”

It’s a mistake and it’s madness and it can only end in blood, but Thor bends his head and lets Loki kiss the doubts and the sense from him. Truly, they’re both damned, damned and dangerous, but he’d rather be a monster with a mate than the lonely wanderer he’s been until now.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Loki says, sly and supple as he slides a foot along Thor’s thigh.

“Always,” Thor growls and silences Loki’s laughter with yet another kiss.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Making Amends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/976722) by [hannahrhen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen)
  * [Make It Go Away, Or Make It Better](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251908) by [rayemars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayemars/pseuds/rayemars)




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